


Private Message

by Angel-without-wings-sew (John_lockian)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A number of false starts, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drama, E-mails, First Time, Head Injury, Humour, Love, M/M, NSFW, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, Sex, TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury, fraternal love and fraternal mayhem, medical drama, texts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 55,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/Angel-without-wings-sew
Summary: Keeping Sherlock Holmes alive and out of trouble is no easy task. When he sustains a worrying head wound as part of a case, his older brother Mycroft is thrown together with DI Greg Lestrade to look after him - but by far the hardest part will be learning to cope with each other.These are the full transcripts of the long-running Private Message mystrade roleplay on Tumblr. Expect romance, angst, smut and humour, as Greg and Mycroft attempt to negotiate their way through life and everything it throws at them.Greg is played by Angel-Without-Wings-Sew.





	1. Incident

* * *

 

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mr M A Holmes [holmesma@gov.uk]  
_ _Sent: 22 July 2017 22:05_

_Subject: Sherlock_

 

Mr Homes,

Been trying to get hold of you.  Sherlock has been involved in an incident whilst apprehending a suspect.

John's phone is ringing out, as is yours. Found this email on Sherlock's phone. Hope that you might pick up this email so you can ring me back.

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mr M A Holmes [holmesma@gov.uk]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
__Sent: 22 July 2017 22:07_  

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

 

Inspector -

Might you provide me some details as to this 'incident'?

I'm sure you can appreciate that my brother pinballs from one incident to another these days. I'm a rather busy man and don't have time to babysit him.

I hope this isn't a request for bail money.

M Holmes.

PS. Please note that my name has an L in it. 'Holmes'.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mr M A Holmes [holmesma@gov.uk]  
_ _Sent: 22 July 2017 22:10_

 

_Subject: Sherlock_

 

Mr. HoLmes,

Firstly, thank you for pointing out my typo, that’s what 24hrs without sleep, and very little food does for a man. It is the least of my worries.

As for Sherlock? If you had answered your phone, texts or rung me back as requested. You would no doubt know by now that your brother is not in fact in need of bail money, he is in fact in hospital suffering from a concussion.

Of course, I had not wanted to tell you that via email, but it seems that you have made it necessary.

As John is still in the air coming back from the medical conference in Adelaide, I presumed you would want to be there to support your brother.

Maybe I know better now.

Inspector…

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mr M A Holmes [holmesma@gov.uk]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 22 July 2017 22:14_

 

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

 

Inspector -

I can only assume you’ve opted to use a personal e-mail account so you can take such an impersonal tone with me. Fortunately, being as this is my professional address, I shall do you the courtesy of professionalism.

I had no knowledge of any medical conference. I’m also concerned to discover that you have, while sleep-deprived yourself, inveigled my brother into a hazardous situation while John is not with him. Perhaps you and I could discuss this at the hospital, where you will of course shortly be joining me.

As soon as you’d be so kind as to tell me _which hospital he is at_ …

Is it Royal London this time, or St Barts?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mr M A Holmes [holmesma@gov.uk]_  
_Sent: 22 July 2017 22:17_  
 

_Subject: Sherlock_

 

Mr. HoLmes,

Ok, I am trying to be professional and pleasant to you, you really don’t make it easy!

Let’s gets something straight. I am OFF DUTY, in fact finished my shift just before I heard the news about Sherlock. He wasn’t doing a job for me!

I tried to contact you given the contacts I could find in Sherlock’s phone. I am and have been by his side since his admission.

To be honest, I don’t give a damn about your need for my professionalism. So why not get your arse over to 12d at the Royal London. You can have me killed or whatever you do once we know Sherlock is going to wake up.

Lestrade

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mr M A Holmes [holmesma@gov.uk]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 22 July 2017 22:18_

 

_Subject: Re: Sherlock_

 

Inspector.

Do give me a moment to swap to my personal account.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 22 July 2017 22:21_

 

_Subject: To dispense with professionalism…_

 

Mr Lestrade. I’m sure you and I are going to have a fascinating discussion as soon as this wretched traffic clears, and my arse and I both arrive at the Royal London.

Until that point, let me make something perfectly clear to you.

I have the greatest concern for my little brother’s welfare. Everyday I speed closer to my inevitably early grave through worrying about him. But I do not appreciate you filling my professional inbox with these personal issues. My brother is already whispered around Whitehall to be my biggest liability. I am trying to stem that.

I was not answering my phone because I was in a meeting of international significance - a meeting I have now left. That should tell you my brother’s safety is of paramount importance to me. I’m not interested in hearing accusations to the contrary.

I don’t expect you to understand - just comply.

And you can stop capitalising my L now. I’m sure you’ve made your point.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_For Sherlock's sake... I am sorry for some of the things that I shouted. M._

 

Yeah, well. Tensions run high when someone we care for is threatened. I apologise too. GL

 

_Gracious of you. M._

 

At some point, I need to eat so will have a shower eat and get a bit of shut eye whilst you stay with him... let me know if anything changes? GL

 

 _I shall. For future reference, my personal email address is the fastest way to contact me._  
_Should you need it. M._

 

Well, Mr. Holmes, you have my personal email which flashes up on my phone should you need me. If you prefer to have my work email for future use I shall pass it on to you, though I'm sure you already have it somewhere in a file GL

 

 _As our future discussions are likely to concern Sherlock, then perhaps let us keep this personal._  
_My gratitude for your efforts to contact me. M._

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 23 July 2017 07:16_

 

_Subject: Good morning._

 

Inspector Lestrade,

To update you, Sherlock has slept through the night. They expect him to come round at some point today... I understand he's unlikely to have sustained any permanent damage. The hospital will perform the necessary tests when he's awake.

Does this mean that one out of the three of us slept, or did two of us?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 23 July 2017 07:22_

 

_Subject: Re: Good morning._

 

Mr. Holmes, (ok I dropped the ‘L’)

Thank you for the update. I must admit I was sick with worry yesterday for Sherlock.

I know he has been in worse scrapes than this, but well… his head is… well it’s him isn’t it.

Anyway, I'm sure John will kill him when he gets here. I believe he lands in a couple of hours? Will you be able to arrange a car for him or should I pull in a favour?

As for sleep? Yes two of us if you didn't? I must admit I meant to check in during the night but my body wasn't participating in that plan. It was your email that woke me.

I will have a shower and shave and be there shortly. Do you need for anything?  Clean 3pc suit? Massage facilities? Not sure what you are used to? Not slumming it in a chair though I’m sure.

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

From his uncomfortable armchair at the patient's side, Mycroft Holmes read the final part of the e-mail several times. He rubbed his temple as he did so - tie loosened, hair a mess, eyes heavily undershaded and straining to focus. In his sleep-deprived state, it was all he could do to suppress a sigh.

It seemed the universe was punishing him for some transgression.

First, a Sherlock incident.

Now, taunted with the thought of 'massage facilities' provided by one of the most physically evocative - and depressingly straight - men in London.

When Sherlock had first mentioned the name 'DI Lestrade', Mycroft had checked him out. The only problem now was how to stop checking him out. Mycroft suspected his emotional outburst last night - or _outbursts_ , he supposed, there having been a few of them - hadn't done him any favours in Lestrade's eyes.

Lestrade made him feel so... _ruffled_ , though. He unsettled Mycroft. It was a mercifully rare ability, and Lestrade almost certainly didn't realise he possessed it. All the same, Mycroft feared it was rather going to make things difficult.

He pulled himself together and composed a reply.

At his side, his little brother slept on undisturbed.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 23 July 2017 07:26_

 

_Subject: Re: Good morning._

 

I shall arrange a car to be there for John as he leaves the plane. He'll wish to know straightaway, I'm sure... and I imagine he'll never dare leave the country again.

Apologies to have awoken you.

Thank you for your kind offer. My assistant will be better placed to bring me clothes. However, I appreciate the thought.

Having said that, if it isn't an inconvenience - perhaps something to eat? Hospital vending machines do not yet comply with NHS Nutrition guidelines... and my waist would not thank me for a breakfast of Hula Hoops and Maltesers.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 23 July 2017 07:31_

 

_Subject: Re: Good morning._

 

Mr. Holmes,

No need to apologise for waking me, I set my alert tone to high in case I did in fact sleep too deeply. I want to be there for when Sherlock wakes up.

I shall bring breakfast with me

Lestrade

 

* * *

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
_ _Sent: 23 July 2017 07:34_

 

_Subject: Re: Good morning._

 

How kind.

The medical staff have suggested my brother may not be wholly lucid at first. I’ve been told not to panic if he seems confused and unsettled… he might be unsure of his surroundings.

Just to prepare you.

M Holmes.


	2. Silly Buggers

Mr Holmes, Hope Breakfast was Ok, I'm just sorry I didn't realise your preference of tea over coffee Glad Sherlock is going to be ok, all that rambling was quite amusing really. But you really didn't need to throw me out, I doubt very much he was gonna divulge state secrets. Anyway, let me know when I can sit with him, I'm sure you have to get back to work saving the country! GL

 

_Breakfast was adequate, thank you. I imagine McDonalds tea and coffee taste almost identical anyway._  
_You seem confused about my occupation, inspector? I hold a minor position in the government. Unless Sherlock has in fact already divulged state secrets._  
_Might I ask what you mean by 'amusing'? M_

 

You cheeky sod! That breakfast came from the local Bistro. You don't get almond croissants and danish pastries in Mc Donald's. That coffee itself was a fiver cup, sorry it didn't meet your standards!  
As for your employment? If you are a minor government civil servant then I must be a traffic warden in reality!  
Oh and as for Sherlock's ramblings, I know I shouldn't have laughed but I thought he said you were a clandestine pornographer! I really must ask him if he remembers what he was trying to say when he is more lucid. GL

 

_Check your e-mails, will you? I loathe texting. M_

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 23 July 2017 10:15_

 

_Subject: In response to your text._

 

Firstly, five pounds a cup? In that case I'd like to report a crime, inspector. You have quite clearly been mugged.

Secondly - unless you would actually like to _become_ a traffic warden, I suggest you keep your knowledge of my government position to yourself. A demotion can very easily be arranged. Suffice to say, my role is meant to be a discreet one. Keeping it that way is difficult enough, thanks to Sherlock. I hope I shan't now have to concern myself with your silence too.

Thirdly - and most importantly - I shouldn't bother asking Sherlock about what he said, if I were you. It would be a waste of your time.

I can't imagine what he meant. But quite clearly, inspector, out of all the varied and fascinating things that I might have chosen to be, a 'clandestine pornographer' is not one of them.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 23 July 2017 10:22_

 

_Subject: Re: In response to your text._

 

You are a cheeky sod Mr. Holmes. I really don’t know how to take you!

Secondly, tell me you are joking? That actually sounded like a threat regarding my position? Don’t mess with me Mr. Holmes. You might be able to get away with anything, but you will have fun with all the paper work it takes to make it all go away.

Lastly, you know what? I will bloody interrogate Sherlock now, just because you have got me really interested in what he was going to say! I thought he was rambling about rubbish but now I am really intrigued!

Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 23 July 2017 18:40_

 

_Subject: What the hell !!!!!!!_

 

Mr Holmes,

What the actual fuck?  Turn up at the hospital this afternoon to find Sherlock has been discharged into the care of a private clinic?

Not only that but they are under strict instructions to tell only relatives of his whereabouts.

And when I flash my badge, I am further told that if law enforcement ask about him, they are welcome to bring a warrant?

Then I try and ring John knowing that he must be with Sherlock by now, only to find his phone is switched off?

I feel like I have been put out to pasture, and after all I did chasing you.

Well I don’t know why you have gone all Men in Black on me, but I am royally pissed off. Sherlock has become important to me, I have watched his back for years now. Ad you suddenly freeze me out? What is that all about?

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 23 July 2017 18:51_

 

_Subject: Re: What the hell !!!!!!!_

 

Inspector -

My brother’s medical care is your division now? I suppose something had to be.

I’m not entirely sure what the problem is. Sherlock has been transferred to a private clinic for further tests. If you’re quite so concerned about him, surely you should be pleased that he is now receiving specialist care - where nobody can interrogate him.

And why the hell should I know why John’s phone is off? Contrary to what you seem to think I’m not actually omnipotent.

In short, inspector… you ARE welcome to bring a warrant.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

Greg’s Personal Thoughts 

 

_Feel like I’ve walked into the twilight zone.  What on earth is happening? Thought Sherlock could be hard work but Mycroft? He’s a right piece of work!_

_Doesn’t make bloody sense. One minute laughing and joking about poor coffee and Sherlock’s ramblings - the next, I’m threatened with demotion and Sherlock has been secreted away. I swear Mycroft is the one who is a sociopath!_

_Well two can play silly buggers, Time to pull in some favours. A quick phone call to traffic should have his lovely car pulled over for speeding! Let him waste some precious time making a speeding ticket go away!_

_I need some R &R. _

 

* * *

 

_Is there a reason I have just been flagged down for some nonsense about speeding? M_

 

_Because I have the keenest feeling YOU are behind this. M_

 

_I am now being BREATHALYSED. M_

 

_Answer your DAMN phone Lestrade. This is not a proportionate response. M_

 

_Lestrade I am NOT a forgiving man. M_

* * *

 

Sorry, do I know you?  
I think you might have mistaken me for someone who gives a fuck! GL

 

* * *

 

_You are going to WISH I had just made you a traffic warden. M_

 

_You have tangled with entirely the wrong person. M_

 

_If I catch you trying to access Sherlock I will make you sorry you EVER crossed my path. M_

 

* * *

 

Access Sherlock? What the hell? Have you slept recently? I think maybe you are either sleep deprived, food deprived or have taken on Sherlock's brain injury! I will talk to Sherlock when he is at home and well. Or are you going to forbid him from working with NSY again? BTW did you pass the Breathalyzer? GL

 

* * *

 

_You cannot CATCH a BRAIN INJURY, dolt. They're not contagious. M_

 

_I am going to ruin you. M_

 

_And yes, I am going to forbid it. M_

 

_And YES, I passed the bloody breathalyzer. M_

 

_Tell something. Do you think you're funny? M_

 

* * *

Mr Holmes enough! You are giving me migraine! I don't think I have ever met anyone so intent on controlling other people and their lives. 

  
You will ruin me? For bringing you crap coffee? I wish I had dosed it with arsenic.

  
I await with interest the fallout when you try to forbid Sherlock from working with NSY.

  
As for being funny? Nope I am dead serious when I tell you, that you have messed with the wrong person this time/ All the crap I've been through the last few years? You are nothing but loose change! GL


	3. Sanctuary

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Alton Beckett_  
_To: Dick Tracy_

 

Dear Dick…

How wonderful to have your review to come home to after a long day. I can’t tell you how it lights up my heart to see a new message from you waiting in my inbox… and I’m so glad you enjoyed my latest inane scribblings. You are far too kind. If the fruits of my imagination make you happy, Dick, I hope they are growing plentifully for many years to come.

My current subscriber count is almost 35,000 - a figure I can’t quite get my head around - but you are by far my favourite reviewer. I do mean that. I don’t think I’ve ever written a word you haven’t read.

I did wonder if this latest one was a little farfetched. Are furious arguments ever _really_ turned so easily into passionate fucking? Perhaps my life and my fiction are just running on wildly divergent lines… I am glad you enjoyed it, anyway.

I think you will like the next one, too. A short story set in a library. ‘ _Sex Amongst The Stacks_ ’… I’m dreadful, aren’t I? I don’t know why any of you keep reading my scrawling. My plots are cliched and my characters are about as realistic as Disney princes.

Still… I suppose we all need a little escapism from our infuriating real lives.

If you’d ever like to make a special request, Dick… well, my inbox is open to you. I’d love to write something just for you.

Think about it. (I will.)

With great affection,

Alton (who is, of course, your very favourite author…) x

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Dick Tracy_  
_To: Alton Beckett_

 

Hello Alton,

Your response to my review couldn’t come at a better time. It has been a hell of a day for me.

Seriously, I loved the latest story. Far fetched? well maybe, but if you can’t go where your imagination takes you in fantasy, then when can you? Mind you, in my real life I end up in altercations hourly, so maybe its a good think they don’t all end up in a good fuck. I keep re reading that line you wrote, about your line and that in your writing, I must admit I’m not the best at reading between the lines, but were you hinting at part of your real life persona? Have you really never had angry sex which turns into the most amazing apology?

I am very flattered to be considered a favourite reviewer, though fitting I suppose as you are my favourite author.

Sex amongst the stacks hey? well I am intrigued and can’t wait for that one. Your stories have become  a bit of company to me. Does that sound pathetic? It’s just nice to lose myself in some fantasy after a hard day at the office.

As for an idea? Well who knows, I will think about it, but my lack of real sex life at the moment does not lead to much imaginative ramblings.

Anyway, thanks again for getting back to me. After a horrible day, you have brought some sunshine in,

Yours, Dick

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Alton Beckett_  
_To: Dick Tracy_

 

Dearest Dick,

You are perfection. The thought of you wasting away in an office somewhere saddens my very soul. I hope whoever has caused your horrible day receives entirely what they deserve for distressing my favourite reviewer.

Alas, that I have never known the joys of angry sex into apology… is it as thrilling as I envision? … but then, there are a number of things I have never known… it sounds as if you and I are both in something of a dry spell at the moment. My commiserations. Real life is so very complicated.

Much safer, the sanctuary of fiction.

If only we could solve our actual problems as easily as turning a page. (or, as is now so often the case, clicking ‘next chapter’…)

Let me come up with some imaginative ramblings for you, dear heart. It is my speciality, after all. ;)  Give me a few days and I shall put something special together just for you.

Until then, to soothe your bad day… perhaps a hot bath and a re-read of ’ _The King of Hearts_ ’, chapter four? I seem to remember you liked that one… in fact, if I remember rightly, you told me you’d clocked up three orgasms over it so far… perhaps time for a fourth?

With only greater affection,

Alton x

 


	4. Private Citizens

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 18:32_

 

 _Subject: E_ _nough already_

 

Mr Holmes,

Look, I give in. I am confused by all of this.

You know something, I am a nice guy. I don’t like confrontations, apart from with villains.

I especially don’t like confrontations when I don’t know what the hell it’s about.

I had a long bath nice, and a good sleep last night,  decided I didn’t want to carry on this feud that’s popped out of nowhere.

So, I get up this morning, intend to email you anyway. But on the way back from grabbing my newspaper, one of your, erm…. assistants took me for a drive.  Went bloody willingly, because I thought it would be ideal to meet with you and try to sort out what’s gone on with you.

What do I find? Well you know don’t you. Upney? You had dropped me off in Upney? Just left outside a warehouse! I had no wallet! Just the change from my newspaper. Lucky I had my phone!  Why would you do that? You know it took me three hours to get home? Three hours! I spent all yesterday my first day of for ages.. trying to find out what had gone on with Sherlock, and all today trying to get back from a non-existent rendezvous with yourself. My time off is really precious, and if you understand nothing, I know you will understand that!

So, look. I won’t have you pulled over on driving offences or drug busts. If you can resist from shipping me off and leaving me stranded in parts of outer London or worse.

I’ll leave it to Sherlock to decide what he wants to do about the yard, but I would appreciate it if you can let me know he is ok?

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 18:45_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Inspector -

I’m glad that three hours of enforced thinking has brought you to the conclusion that I am not a man to antagonise.

Thank you for your pained apology… although you seem to have neglected to include the word ‘sorry’ anywhere? A harmless oversight I’m sure you will correct in your reply.

My brother continues to receive medical attention.

He had a difficult night.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 18:52_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Mr Holmes,

Arrogant doesn’t come close to describe you!

The reason you didn’t see the word sorry, was because I have nothing to apologise for. You are a clever man, and if you go into your little mind palace and take a look at yesterday’s events, you will see this in all it’s glory.

Something I am not privy to disturbed you yesterday, but it wasn’t anything I said.

I was just calling a truce. You do not scare me! And if you want to go to war? Let’ s go! You can’ t be nearly as hard as my ex wife! She can bring most men to their knees.. ( well in fact she tried but that’s beside the point)

As for Sherlock, please give him my regards. I hope he is home soon

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 19:12_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Inspector -

‘Arrogant’ suggests an _exaggerated_ notion of one’s abilities. And believe me, I am well-versed in the subject of that which is within my capabilities. Unless you’d like to study that particular subject too, I suggest you stop barking at me like a jacked-up terrier and get round to the apology you owe me.

Is there a man left in London your ex-wife hasn’t had on their knees…?

Or I thought she was normally on hers?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 19:27_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Are you really? Then you know you need to apologise as you have stepped way over the line!

As for my ex? You too huh? Didn’t think she was your type!

Then you would know all about her little tricks!

Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 19:40_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Don’t flatter yourself, inspector. I have better taste than your leftovers.

What precisely do I have to apologise for? Teaching you some respect? Be grateful I didn’t have you relocated to Mexico. Would have taken you rather a lot longer to walk back, I think.

Perhaps I shall bookmark that idea for the next time you inevitably antagonise me.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 19:46_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Yeah, I’m sure you have the ladies queuing at the door!

And we will do this in little steps so your big but stupid brain can comprehend.

  1. For hours and hours I tried to get hold of you to let you know about Sherlock.


  1. I stayed with him, the whole time, until you got there.


  1. I brought you breakfast, ok -  you didn’t like the coffee  but I went out of my way to get you a half decent cup.


  1. I came back to the hospital to visit Sherlock AND support you.



THEN WITH NO EXPLANATION AT ALL YOU CUT OFF MY CONTACT WITH HIM AND THREATENED ME! HAD ME KIDNAPPED AND DROPPED MILES AWAY.

Who is the one who should be apologising? because if it’s me. Then t least tell me what I bloody did.

Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 19:03_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Inspector, you are fast becoming the most infuriating individual I’ve ever been forced to deal with. You came to the hospital to ‘ _support me_ ’? I am of course a fragile snowflake who requires a big strong policeman to pat my hand every time my brother gets himself into yet another wholly avoidable mess.

And on the subject of my brother, I think it’s perfectly clear why he is now in the private clinic.

His head injury has left him liable to ramble. I don’t know what snippets of information might take this opportunity to leave his mouth. I have no wish for my brother to be embarrassed about any details of his own personal life coming to light.

Did you not tell me yourself you found it ‘amusing’?

My family’s dignity is not entertainment, inspector. We are all private citizens, entitled to our secrets. I’m sure they teach you that at some point in Police Training.

And stop going on about the damnable breakfast, man. You have dreadful taste in coffee.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 19:34_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

Yeah,

As for my Ex? Yeah you are probably right! Even I can’t deny that one!

Oh, respect? it’s earned so you will have none from me till you have apologised! And send me to bloody Mexico! Some sea, sand and sex.. just might give me the break I need!

I give up. I won’t apologise. I don’t think I have anything to apologise for. Yes the rambling? It was funny. But jeez… have you heard him high? Remember I used to pick him up off the streets, You would be… erm…. interested to know what he told me. But have I ever been indiscreet?  I have never nor would I ever let Sherlock down! As for you and your family? You do not have an entitlement to be rude! I have never mentioned any of your family!  I don’t even know anything about them!

The fact that you think I would shout my mouth off about your secrets? Well yeah, we all have secrets. but some must obviously be bigger than others the way some people try to cover them up…..

And the breakfast!!! I went out of my way to get you a nice breakfast and I don’t even know why I did that… especially now, you jumped up, fuck!

Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 20:03_

 

 _Subject: Re: E_ _nough already_

 

What the hell has Sherlock told you?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 20:16_

 

_Subject: LESTRADE._

 

Answer your DAMN phone. Why do you HAVE one if you never even ANSWER the wretched thing?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 24 July 2017 20:39_

 

_Subject: LESTRADE._

 

In fact, that’s fine. Ignore me. Don’t you even dare try to claim you’ve been distracted by something.

I do not care.

Whatever lies about me my drug addict brother has been filling your gossip-hungry head with while he’s high, I couldn’t care less. I was trying to have a pleasant evening for once. You have ruined it. And I am now finished with you trying to mock me.

Whatever you think that you know, you do NOT.

Stop contacting me.

M Holmes.


	5. Favourite Reader

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Dick Tracy_  
_To: Alton Beckett_

 

Alton,

Was nice chatting to you last night. I took your advice and had a nice read of some of my favourites whilst having a long soak.

I slept well following. Had an interesting day today which stressed me out some, maybe I’ll tell you about it one day. Until next time, thanks again. Your words are like magic – well they certainly did the trick for me last night. ;)

Dick

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Alton Beckett_  
_To: Dick Tracy_

 

Dear Dick,

So sorry for my late reply to you… I too have been battling the real world today. Luckily, nothing that the sight of your name in my inbox cannot soothe.

To continue a metaphor, I am delighted to have you under my spell. ;)

Any inspiring musings to share? I have been staring bleakly at my keyboard for almost an hour now… I fear the world has worn me thin today. The magic won’t come.

Quite honestly Dick, I wonder if I miss the connection of another person. Producing for an audience is a magnificent privilege, but… it’s been a while since I had something back. I’m probably responsible for several hundred orgasms a day. It has been a while since someone took responsibility for mine. The thought quietens me.

Dear Lord… I _have_ had a long day. Spilling my soul at you.

I shall hit send before I say any worse.

With fondest regards,

Alton x

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Dick Tracy_  
_To: Alton Beckett_

 

Alton,

If you don’t mind me saying, you sound like a lonely man, I mean, I’m not patronising you or anything, but don’t you get out and socialise?

Your fiction is hot, I mean Christ, did the trick for me last night. But you need someone to take care of you.

I was once told to make friends with next person to write or call, so why not take it a step further, decide to shag the next bloke who walks past, or if it’s not your boss, the last or next person to send an email.

You can work your charms on them.

Dick

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Alton Beckett_  
_To: Dick Tracy_

 

Dear Dick,

Thank you for a much-needed moment of humour… you might not have intended it, but it is appreciated nonetheless. I’m afraid my email inbox recently has been empty of anything but people causing difficulty for me.

Perhaps I will take your suggestion to ambush and drag back to my lair the next man who walks past my door? Might be a pleasant surprise for him. It’s not everyday one gets savaged by a horny and lonely erotic fiction author.

With that in mind… when shall I expect you to drift past my door? So I can have the net ready, of course.

Playfully,

Alton x

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Dick Tracy_  
_To: Alton Beckett_

 

Dear Alton,

you do make me laugh. I don’t think I was trying to be funny, but anything that cheers you up :)

Sorry your email contacts are being difficult, funnily enough I have the same problem, presently.

As for passing your door, Well who knows eh? To be honest, I have such very little time off, I’ll be back in work tomorrow again, so might be a bit slower with my messages to you. You do make it sound like an attractive proposition though. You do realise, that now I am horny again, and this scenario will probable be played out in my fantasy very soon.

Your favourite reader :)

Dick

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Alton Beckett_  
_To: Dick Tracy_

 

Dear Dick…

Indeed? It’s a fascinating premise, I must say. A favourite author and his favourite reader. Perhaps a midnight reading in bed.

I wonder if it’s possible to come from hearing one’s lover’s voice alone. Not a touch - not a single caress. Merely a murmur in one’s ear, honeyed words and promises.

I do believe I can feel a little of the magic coming back…

How inspiring you are, dear heart.

Your grateful author,

Alton x

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Dick Tracy_  
_To: Alton Beckett_

 

Dear Alton,

Maybe that should be your next story? Now that is wank material right there!!

As for orgasm through voice? -  well I can’t say my voice would do that for you, I have a bit of a cockney accent going on. But maybe One day we could give it a try?

Dick

 

* * *

 

_PRIVATE MESSAGE_

_From: Alton Beckett_  
_To: Dick Tracy_

 

Dear Dick,

Happen to be rather fond of the London accent. Especially when it is moaning my name.

Hmm. It seems this chapter is not going to be finished this evening. First, distracted by my e-mails; then, distracted by self-pity; now, distracted by desperate and inescapable horniness.

I may have to sign out for the night… suffice to say, favourite reader, that you and I will be continuing this conversation in my mind, in my bed, very shortly. And if I have any sense left afterwards, I will be writing some of it down to send to you.

Have a wonderful evening. I hope we’ll talk more this week.

In great anticipation,

Alton x


	6. Visitors

"How are you?" Mycroft asked, as he seated himself uncomfortably at Sherlock's bedside.

"Quite fine. Still smarter than all of the staff combined. Could you not have picked a clinic that would let me smoke, Mycroft?"

"You have suffered a brain injury. The last thing you need is nicotine."

Sherlock sighed, looking away across his private room.

"Ask, then," he said.

"Ask what?" said Mycroft.

"You've clearly come here at some speed," his younger brother deduced, "following a recent incident that has concerned you greatly. That, plus the very late hour, and the fact you have been writing but have now given up for the night in despair, leads me to suspect this might be interesting. So... ask."

Mycroft bit his tongue.

It had been yet another long day. Damnable Lestrade's goading message had come just as he'd been settling into bed, hoping to soothe his ragged nerves with a bottle of baby oil and a fantasy of his favourite reviewer. Dick was only becoming more and more fascinating as time went on. A cockney accent suggested a London connection, even if just a childhood one. The thought that the mysterious Dick Tracy might even still be _in_ London... well, it had almost been a rather nice evening of rumination.

Then Lestrade had happened.

In fact, Lestrade had been happening more and more to Mycroft lately. It was getting unbearable.

Now Sherlock might have given the wretched man all the ammo he needed to spoil both of Mycroft's lives in one go.

"What precisely have you told Lestrade?" he said.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "A number of things."

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek. "Sherlock, have you...?" he began, furious - then lowered his voice. " _Alton_."

Sherlock studied him for a while, thinking.

"No," he said at last.

Mycroft almost didn't dare believe it. "Can you be certain?"

"He... hasn't requested further details from me, dear brother, if indeed I have 'blown your cover'. Ironic, in that you now spend most evenings blowing other people's..."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You weren't funny _before_ the brain injury, little brother. You're not funny now."

Sherlock gave him a look of reproach.

"Mycroft," he said. "If it was _me_ who had branched into erotic fiction as a casual second career, exactly how funny would you find it?"

Mycroft gritted his teeth. The answer was extremely, though he didn't want to say it.

"Lestrade has mentioned nothing to me about it," Sherlock said. "If he knows, he doesn't care. Where is Gordon, anyway? I thought he'd promised to visit me. So boring just... _laid_ _here_ with the ceiling for company."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, priming a response in his mouth.

Sherlock's brow darkened as he looked across at his older brother.

"Mycroft," he said, slowly. " _Why_ has Inspector Lestrade not been to visit me?"

* * *

“Hello mate... how you feeling?”

Greg stopped in the doorway of room six. If emptied of medical equipment, it could almost have been a hotel room. Sherlock was lying on his side facing Greg as he entered the room - he smiled, and greeted Greg enthusiastically.

"Here you go – brought you choc digestives… John said they're one of your favourites." Greg handed the biscuits to Sherlock as he took a seat in the armchair by the bed. "Sorry it’s been a while since I saw you, it’s just…"

"Don’t worry, inspector... I hear you were 'mycrofted'." Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "It won’t happen again. I saw him last night and we spoke at length on the subject. I'm appalled that he believed he could ban you from my presence. John informed me that you took great pains to find me medical attention when I most needed it. So... thank you, Greg.”

Greg smiled at the use of his proper name; Sherlock looked slightly abashed.

"So... Mycroft _won’t_ be deporting me to Mexico, then?" Greg chuckled as he saw by Sherlock’s expression that he hadn’t been told quite everything. "Ahh, don’t worry about it... but your brother's a piece of work. I see why you get exasperated sometimes."

Greg allowed his mind to wander over the conversations with Mycroft over the past few days. There were too many – yet, even whilst Mycroft was being his most obnoxious self, Greg struggled to get that angry with him. It must be all the time he had spent with Sherlock – training him for a run in with big brother.

“Greg… I shan't tell you everything that’s gone on. You are a good man, and I think you will understand that sometimes things are left unsaid. But I'm aware that I may have... _rambled_ a little, during my early stay at the hospital. Could we forget anything I might have said? Mycroft is of course unbearable, but… in this, at least, it’s harmless. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Sherlock studied Greg as he spoke, his headache beginning to thump an atonal beat inside his skull.

"Sherlock, it’s fine. Honestly, I don’t know what got his knickers in such a twist, but hey... each to their own." Greg smiled a little. "If he's civil to me, I can put up with him. Just those threats - well... I won’t have it. I told him so."

Sherlock laughed. “You're a brave man, inspector. No wonder you had him ruffled. I wouldn’t be surprised if he's a little nicer to you in the coming days. Perhaps you should 'milk it', as I believe the common phrasing goes."

Greg sniggered.

"Thing is, Sherlock… you and him… well, you're similar, y'know? He pushed me close to the edge, but I don’t want him to worry. His secrets are safe with me."

Maybe it was the concussion, but Sherlock suspected that Greg still had no clue what Mycroft’s secrets were. Even if he did, he trusted that Greg would do the right thing.

He wouldn’t want to ruin a man over something so personal, so petty.

As much as Sherlock hated his brother at times, he wanted him to be happy - in whatever way that came.


	7. Statement of Regret

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 09:48_

_Subject: With regret._

 

Inspector -

Having had time to consider the matter, perhaps a truce might serve us both well. I regret if my communications of last night were a trifle brusque. Suffice to say I was perhaps over-zealous of my family's right to privacy.

I have since spoken to Sherlock.

He is rather insistent upon seeing you.

He also has suggested that you and I might navigate towards a more civil relationship - for his, and our, benefit.

I shall endeavour to let your unfortunate talent for aggravating me  not intrude upon my brother's welfare.

You are of course a man of discretion and I should like to rely upon that. Aside from his own personal life, Sherlock is also privy to knowledge about MY life that I would rather not share, and while of course I have no secrets, Inspector, it would be gratifying to think you should not repeat anything my brother says while his brain injury works its course.

I hope this sits well with you.

M Holmes.  

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:17_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Mr Holmes,

Is this an apology? I thought any apology from you would accompany chocolates, Flowers and VERY good coffee!

I have seen Sherlock just now.  We had a chat. And well, just let’s say – As I told you before Mr Holmes, I can and am always discreet. So maybe you can stop threatening me now?

As for civility, hmm, I am sure that’s all I asked for?

So of course, let’s do that and call it your idea hey?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:31_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Inspector -

It's not an apology, it's a statement of regret. They are quite different.

I'm glad you have spoken to Sherlock. No doubt he was glad to see you. He is clearly rather fond of you and obviously I would like to aid his recovery as much as possible... perhaps we can put this unpleasantness behind us for Sherlock's sake.

I'm also glad to be assured of your discretion.

Didn't have you pegged as a chocolates and flowers man.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:40_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Mr Holmes,

Yeah love flowers and chocolate, and GOOD coffee!

Not as much as I hear a man apologising when he has wronged me though!

G Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:43_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Inspector -

Mm, yes. Don't we all love hearing that sound.

Try Carla's on Canon Row for actually pleasant coffee. It's only round the corner from New Scotland Yard. I believe this means you have no excuse.

She makes a rather excellent coffee cake as well.

See how well we are doing at civility.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:45_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Well, if I'm in your good books now. Where would I have to be to actually receive the coffee?

And I'm still waiting for the apology......

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:49_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Are you suggesting we meet? I'm rather busy today.

Though perhaps tomorrow, if you were available around eleven, we might have coffee... the hospital have sent me some of Sherlock's latest test results. Perhaps those would be of interest to you.

And I have already told you that I regret any offence caused.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:56_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Hadn't thought about meeting, but yeah? If you are going to buy the goodies, and apologise, then I'm up for that!

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 10:58_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

I have apologised.

I will buy you a coffee if you agree to drop this. It is excruciating.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 11:02_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Call me old fashioned but when one apologises it is usual to say the words 'I'm sorry', being regretful just conjures up a feeling of being caught out in your bad behaviour.

Greg

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 11:06_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Lestrade, you are quite simply the most aggravating man I have ever met.

I have already told you that my conduct was perhaps excessive and that it is unfortunate if you were offended by my actions. What more could you possibly want from me?

This is now eating into my work day. We could have had coffee in the time that I've taken to argue with you about coffee.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 11:07_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Just say the words!!!!!

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 11:11_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Oh, for the love of everything holy...

I am SORRY I threatened to deport you to Mexico.

I am SORRY I kept you from Sherlock.

I am SORRY I was concerned about what Sherlock had told you about my private life.

But more than all this I am SORRY that I now have to deal with you Lestrade, because you are essentially a migraine in human form. I am sorry for the day that you ever followed Sherlock home and I am sorry that you have such a blasted talent for getting under my skin.

Is that quite transparent enough for you?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 11:13_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

There, that wasn't too bad was it?

You still buying me coffee?

Greg

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 25 July 2017 11:16_

_Subject: Re: With regret._

 

Damn you.

Damn you to hell Gregory Lestrade.

Meet me at Carla's in ten minutes.

Mycroft.


	8. Coffee and Cake

Mycroft reached Carla’s Coffee Bar just under ten minutes later, with more than a touch of trepidation. He’d been forced to postpone a finance meeting for this. He just hoped Lestrade wasn’t going to make a damn fuss.

He ordered two flat whites, and took a table in the corner.

He then sat down to wait. As he did, he checked his emails on his phone, hoping to ease some of his tension.

His heart leapt as he spotted a new private message from Dick - but there was no time to answer it. The door of the coffee house had opened with a jingle.

_Here we go_ , Mycroft thought. He braced himself to be patient and tried giving Greg a smile, reminding himself that at least there was Dick to reply to when all this was over. He’d meant to write Dick something for days now. Real life kept intruding - real life in the guise of Greg Damn Lestrade.

“Flat white,” he said, nudging the cup towards the inspector as he approached. “I’m afraid I haven’t brought you any flowers.”

Greg took the proffered coffee. “Flowers… hmm,” he said. “I’ll forgive you, since your apology was so sincere… _not_. Look, shall we just start over?

Mycroft winced a little. He’d known this was going to be difficult. As the inspector sat down, Mycroft reflected to himself that this would all be so much easier if Lestrade wasn’t so… _photogenic_. He had one of those eternally likeable, almost mischievous faces, and it just did things to Mycroft. Lestrade was the sort of man who looked like he’d smell good.

_God alive, I need to get laid… Mycroft thought. Before I go insane._

He lifted his coffee to his lips.

"Yes,” he said. “Perhaps we could. For Sherlock’s sake. You and I are both intelligent, reasonable professionals, after all… there’s no reason we shouldn’t get along.” He blew across the surface of his cup. “How has your morning been?”

“Not bad actually,” Lestrade said. “Thought it would be mayhem after my two days off, but the criminals seem to have taken a sabbatical. It’s quiet. Got all my paperwork finished by ten.”

Mycroft took a first sip of coffee, briefly closing his eyes. His heart belonged to tea and always would - but lately, coffee had been the only thing keeping him on his feet. Decent stuff like this, anyway.

“By ten?” he said. “Heavens… sometimes I haven’t finished mine by ten at night.”

He looked up over his coffee, briefly meeting Lestrade’s eyes. Sweet stars, but the man was attractive. _Life is unfair_ , he thought.

“I - wondered if we might set up a visiting schedule for Sherlock. Alternate visits, perhaps. To take some of the pressure away from John.”

Greg nodded. “I can do most times until a case comes in… but as you know, work will pull rank, unless you can do some magic with the boss. Do you know how long Sherlock will be in for? You said something about test results in your email.”

“Oh - yes, of course…” Mycroft reached inside his coat, extracting the sheath of documents he’d been given by the clinic. “It’s - largely medical jargon,” he said with a frown, unfolding them and offering them to Greg. “Take a look if you wish. The short answer is they want to keep him in for two more weeks. His headaches are quite pronounced, and he’s still not entirely in control of what he says…”

He watched Greg drink the coffee, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

“Good?” he inquired.

_Tell me that it’s good, you beautiful bastard._

Greg reached for the papers. His fingers brushed Mycroft’s as he took them.

The brief shock of touch burned all ideas about gloating out of Mycroft’s head. He maintained a fiercely neutral expression as he busied his fingers on the coffee cup, drinking while Greg read.

“Well,” Greg said. “I hope they manage to keep him in for two weeks. Once he’s feeling better, he’ll be climbing the walls.”

“Mm… that might be our main challenge, I fear. We’ll need things to occupy him. If you have any challenging cases, now might be a golden opportunity for you to delegate… have a relaxing two weeks for yourself.”

Mycroft smiled a little, sipping his coffee. He was trying to ignore the slight tingling in his fingers where Greg had touched him. He was also trying to ignore the thought of pushing Greg up against the nearest wall.

“Perhaps head off to Mexico,” he suggested, eyes dark. “Sea, sand…”

_What in God’s name am I saying? Oh, hell._

“I have about a dozen cold case files,” Greg said. “If you would okay it with the powers that be, I’ll release them into his care. Thing is, Mycroft… er…. I know you’re aware, but Sherlock can’t be seen to have anything to do with these particular cases. Suffering from a head injury, should any of these come to trial, they would be thrown out if word got out that he had a hand in the investigation and was not compos mentis.”

“I’ll see to it that his name stays off any records,” Mycroft promised. “If you need to attach a name to anything, put mine… it usually shuts down any awkward questions rather quickly…”

There was a pause.

“So…” Greg said. “Have you ever been to Mexico?”

Mycroft eyed Greg over the rim of his coffee cup as he took another sip. _Casual holiday chat_ , he thought. _The peak of civility_.

“Ah… only to check up on all the people I’ve had deported there.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “More of a - European city break sort of person. Art galleries. Opera houses.”

“Can’t say I’ve been to much of anywhere,” Greg said. “This Job isn’t conducive to family holidays. I was going to go to Barcelona before the divorce, but she took the plans when she took the cash.”

He seemed to pause.

“Was going to see the Sagrada Familia,” he said. “The idea of such an amazing building still being built after such a length of time… makes me feel quite small. Do you know it?”

Mycroft stared across the table in amazement.

“The Sagrada Família - …” he said. “Yes, it’s - magnificent. But then as are most of Gaudí’s designs. It’s… a Gothic masterpiece. You really must see it.”

He wondered if he was dreaming.

“You know Spanish architecture,” he said.

Inspector Lestrade was full of surprises. Mycroft had had him down as a beach-and-a-beer sort of man.

Greg looked at him across the table, an eyebrow raised. “You don’t like much… do you, Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft was still trying to reconcile the man in front of him, casually discussing Spanish architecture, with the man who had spent the week winding him up by e-mail. The question took him by surprise.

His brow contracted faintly.

“I like a number of things,” he protested. “Art. Tea. Literature. Peace and quiet.”

“So, do I, Mr Holmes,” Greg said. “So do I. I think if we got to know each other instead of biting each other’s heads off, we might have some things in common”

Mycroft found himself faced with a man perhaps far wiser than he’d wanted to believe. It made him feel uneasy.

_’Things in common_ _’_ , he thought. It quietened his heart.

What could he possibly have in common with the widely-liked, easygoing and brave Inspector Lestrade?

He was a politician who the public didn’t even know existed; an erotic writer who hadn’t felt someone else touch his skin in over a year; an older brother who always seemed to make the wrong decisions, no matter which ones he made.

He spent so much of his time on other people. And yet everyone knew him as a cold-hearted bastard.

He wondered if it was easy to be Lestrade. It looked it. Maybe Lestrade was just better at being who he actually was.

It took Mycroft a moment to find something suitable to say - some piece of light conversation he could throw out with a faint smile.

“Yes, well… perhaps it is easy to misread each other by email. Tone is difficult to interpret by text alone.”

He picked up his coffee, hiding his expression behind it as he drank.

Greg settled back in his chair.

“Oh, yeah…” he said. “Nice coffee, by the way.” He grinned.

Mycroft’s brief moment of pity evaporated at once. He was disarmed enough to flash a grin across the table, saying, with a delighted glitter of his eyes,

“ _Yes_ , inspector. Yes, it is. I’m glad your re-education about these things has now begun.”

A thought tingled into his mind.

“Stay there,” he said.

He proceeded to the counter, returning a couple of minutes later carrying a plate and two forks. Upon the plate was a slice of cake so richly filled with espresso and chocolate that it was almost black.

Mycroft placed it down upon the table, handed Lestrade a fork, and said, “Proper breakfast.”

As he sat down, taking up his own fork, he added,

“They call it ‘Better Than Sex’… the jury is still out, but it’s a viable contender.”

He waited for Lestrade to eat first, watching his reaction with interest. He was delighted to see Greg tuck in with gusto.

He was even more delighted by the groan.

“Ohhh… _delicious_.”

Mycroft gripped his hands together very hard beneath the table, his knuckles whitening. It wasn’t even noon, and he already knew exactly what he would be thinking about tonight when he got into bed. He would be thinking about it in some detail.

It almost wrote itself. _Slowly he laved his tongue through the mess of crumbs and chocolate smeared across Greg’s chest, listening with delight to the groans it envoked, feeling the man arch beneath him. He took a second handful of cake from by the bed…_

_God on high. I must stop this. I must stop this now._

“Well, Mycroft…” Lestrade was saying. “You win the battle of the cake and the coffee!”

“Well,” Mycroft said, taking a moment to retrieve his thoughts from the floor. “I’m glad I could be of service.” He drank the last of his coffee. “This has been… productive.”

Greg coughed quietly.

“I’m expecting a phone call soon, Mr Holmes… as delightful as the cake and coffee have been, I should take my leave. Would you like me to drop in Sherlock tonight? We seem to have neglected to formulate a plan to visit him…”

“Ah - yes, if you could,” Mycroft said. “That would be rather convenient, actually… I have a personal engagement tonight. I probably won’t be contactable. But if you could leave me a short message to let me know how he is… I might not reply until morning.”

Mycroft had spent enough of his life telling diplomatic lies not to feel too guilty. In truth, his 'personal engagement’ was going to be entirely with himself, a pot of Earl Grey and his keyboard, then probably not long after to bed - though not to sleep.

The thought of his favourite reader flickered briefly across his mind. He felt strangely guilty - lusting after Lestrade, while somewhere out there was Dick, waiting for a reply to his message. But then, Mycroft supposed, they were not in a relationship. Dick could well have a partner. Hell, he might have a wife and children. He hardly belonged to Mycroft, nor Mycroft to him. The poor man didn’t even know his real name.

He would write to Dick tonight, he thought. Share a few messages. It would help distract him, however briefly, from the thought of Lestrade covered in cake.

“Well,” he said. “Thank you for… arranging this.”

Greg  stretched as he stood, licking his lips for any stray crumbs. His eyes flitted quickly over Mycroft.

He then reached out and offered a hand. “It’s been nice meeting you in less tense circumstances, Mr Holmes. Maybe we could…”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered over the outstretched hand. He knew something so simple shouldn’t have caused such a leaping of his heart, but it had - and he rather hated it. Touching palms with someone now made him feel as giddy as pulling a lover’s clothes off once had. It was a sorry state of affairs, he realised.

He forced himself to assume a professional expression, took Greg’s hand in a completely neutral manner, and shook it politely.

“Yes. Perhaps this is a better way of communicating. If we - find ourselves in tense circumstances in the future, then perhaps we should - …”

A mobile phone somewhere nearby started to ring.

In the same moment that Mycroft realised the phone ringing was Greg’s, he recognised the tune.

His brow darkened at once.

“Is that - …?” It was unmistakable. The surprising news that Greg was an Elton John fan was lost in Mycroft’s immediate annoyance at the tinny melody of ’ _Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word_ ’. He stared at Greg, biting the end of his tongue. “I hope that’s not a recent artistic choice of yours.”

Greg grimaced.

“Oh, for God’s sake, lighten up!” he said. “A wise man once told me that when you’ve lost your sense of humour, you’ve lost everything,”

Mycroft glared.

Then he felt the edges of his mouth quiver slightly. His eyes glinted, as he told Greg,

“I always get my own back.”

He smiled; it reached his eyes.

Whatever retort Lestrade had been planning, it stuck in his throat. Mycroft enjoyed the transfixed expression for a moment - committing it to memory.

He’d be revisiting it later.


	9. Story of My Life

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

Dear Dick,

Good God its past midnight.

Im so sorry.

I meant to reply to you much earlier today. Really it was all I wanted for most of the day........ which strangely went a little better than days have been lately. Maybe thats why I was struck by inspiration as I made my way home. Written in a frenzy for about six hours..... finished sex among the stacks. Its filth but its good filth.

Tomorrow morning (or later this morning.......? Hmm) I will check it to see how much of it is actually my work, and how much was written by the red wine I might or might not have been drinking........

Then I will post it. I hope you enjoy it.

Now hornier than I have been in weeks. On a day when Ive been pretty much nothing but horny.

Youre probably not even awake.

God.

story of my life. Reaching out and no one reaches for me.

Dick..... why do I have to be horny AND miserable? could I not be one or the other?

Would cope if it was misery alone. there is peace and quiet in misery.

Instead I keep hoping.

Soooooo I am going to wrap this up now.

thanks for listening. Maybe in the morning I will get someone to wipe your inbox before you read this. Except then work will find out. Hmmmm. Lets hope I am sobered up by then. Think of the paperwork. Oooops hitting send! Too late now.

hornily - and miserabibly (miserabelly?),

alton x

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

Hello Alton,

This is a surprise, I didn’t expect you to reply tonight.

I am glad you have had a productive evening. You seem a little - Pissed? I hope you don’t regret this in the morning!

Also, glad today was kinder for you. For me too. You must have sent some good vibes my way, a little problem I’ve been having for the past few days, seemed to evaporate whilst having a coffee today.

So, you are horny? May I ask what has brought this on, or is it an accumulation of a lot of fantastical imaginings, and lack of opportunity?

I’m a horny bugger today as well. But not miserable……. I’m sorry that you are.  Maybe you could get a little relief from a little ‘practical fantasy’. Maybe you could imagine, my hands on your cock instead of your own? My fingers…… well – it’s your fantasy…. But feel free to tell me how it plays out.

I too might indulge tonight. It’s been a dry few weeks. I am looking forward very much to reading your latest work.

Your Dick x

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
 **To:** Dick Tracy

 

Oh my god.

Honestly right now... i would love to give you head. Ive always loved it. I dont know why. Have heard I am good at it.

If I had you sitting on the edge of my bed... just knelt before you in the dark. Taking you into my mouth. Your hand on the back of your head.

Oh fuck.

Okay I am a bit pissed.

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Whoa…. That’s a bloody nice thought….  Yeah you would like me to fuck your mouth?

Mmmm I can’t type like this… I’m off… we will discuss further….

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

Oh my god no! Dont go.

Please. Tell me anything else. Anything. this is the closest Ive had to sex in years.

Id let you fuck my mouth all night. Fuck any of me. Just dont go.

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Hmmm, Keen are you? A little begging?  Well, maybe I would fuck your mouth at least for a while..... but then.... God I would love to Kiss you.. does that sound lame? It's so long since I've had a good snog. I would love to taste you, your tongue,  then your jaw, your neck..... rain little kisses over your chest, (Maybe you have a hairy chest?)

I would run my fingers through it, If not my tongue will glide over you, down to your belly. Then I will nuzzle down till I reach the base of your cock, take you into my mouth and mouth fuck you.....

Tell me you are hard right now...

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

Oh my god.

This is making me harder than anything i have ever written. ever. The thought of you sucking me....... touching me. Kissing me.

do you like to kiss as you fuck?

Last time......... some bar. Some man. didnt like to kiss. Oh my god two years ago. maybe three.

I would love to kiss you as we fuck. dont care who on top. would just like to hold your face in my hands while we're inside each other and kiss you.

Dick I am really drunk. I am embarasing you. tell me to go away.

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Oh Yeah, I love kissing, I love fucking, I love sex.. I've missed sex.  

I'm not averse to being bottom, for you sweet thing, right now?

Well - God! I would love you on your back, your legs over my shoulders while I ready your sweet arse.

Would you let me kiss you - there?  Tease you? Open you?  With my tongue?

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

oh god. And moan and beg you. feeling your tongue opening me, easing me. wriggle inside me.

oil your cock for you with both my hands. Tell you I want you. Tell you I cant cope without your prick inside me right now. cry out as you fill me. whimper as you fuck me.

Drag scratches down your back.

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Jesus - Fuck -  Alton -

We must meet........

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

fuck.......

I just came so hard........ oh god I can barely type. thinking about you on top of me. Coming into me.

we have to meet up. Please. Please I cant be like this anymore.

I think i need to sleep now.

alton xxx

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Till tomorrow - sleep well - I know I will!

Dick x

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

Dick, I... cannot apologise enough for my actions last night.

I've just read the messages back in the cold light of day with an Alka Seltzer.

I cannot tell you how mortified I am. As you've probably surmised, I had rather a lot to drink. Not that it's any excuse.

I am desperately sorry.

Please don't think badly of me.

If it lessens my crime, I now have a hammering headache. It is nearly as painful as some of the things I said to you last night… dear Lord, I've never been so embarrassed in my life.

Please forgive me.

Yours, in despair,

Alton x

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Ah, regrets in the cold light of day huh?

Ah well - I enjoyed it!

Dick

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
**To:** Dick Tracy

 

Oh - I don't know if "regret" is the right word...

I'm just sorry to have been so blunt, perhaps. I hope I wasn't... too much.

I don't think I can deny that I enjoyed it. Not reading the messages back. Or seeing the state of my sheets this morning.

I do not... usually get drunk and cyber-seduce my fans. I just hope you know that.

Still cringing,

Alton x

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Well you sound a bit regretful, but hey, it doesn't matter.

I'm still your number one fan,  maybe you should just stay away from the vino?

I'm having to go now, something with work has come up. I might be tied up for a day or two. But iLl get back to you ?

Your Dick

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Alton Beckett  
 **To:** Dick Tracy

 

No, I understand... real life intrudes. It's fine. I need to leave for work myself soon.

I just don't want you to have the impression I am some kind of predatory drunk. I wonder if I should take your previous advice... to meet someone. Clearly my 'dry spell' is more of a 'parched desert' situation. Nothing is growing.

Truth be told, there's a man I fear I'm developing a penchant for. He's woefully heterosexual. Lunatic ex-wife, the works. I have horrendous taste, Dick.

You aside.

Well... all the best for work.

I'm sorry, once more.

Yours,

Alton x

 

* * *

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From:** Dick Tracy  
**To:** Alton Beckett

 

Christ Alton,

I didn't think that... I really got into it.... I was just well - you seemed like- well like this morning you felt it had gone to far.

Maybe we both should take the plunge and find some reality?

Seems like you have your eye on someone, you approached him?  I was married before too - yet you know the effect you have on me...

Well I've no right to give advice, every time I think someone could be vaguely interested it ends in a heated argument.

Anyway, really must dash. Will catch up in a day or two.

Dick


	10. Uncomplicated

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 26 July 2017 10:01_

_Subject: My brother._

 

Good morning, inspector. It's ten o'clock, so I assume you'll have finished all of your paperwork by now...

I wondered if there were any updates on Sherlock. Is he well?

Thank you for spending the evening with him yesterday. As discussed I shall happily visit tonight.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 26 July 2017  15:46_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr Holmes, Alas, I haven't even got to my paperwork today. Got this nasty mess to sort out in Greenwich. You heard about it?

I see you sent this some hours ago, sorry I didn't get back to you before now. No updates about Sherlock. He was in a good mood last night, and even better when I dropped the files off this morning.

I did notice he had some pain last night, but they are monitoring him closely as you know. John has been with him most of the day I believe. Sherlock said he would be getting him to do some _'legwork'_ for the cases.

Hope you find him in good form. Have to dash.

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 26 July 2017 16:12_

_Subject: My brother._

 

Dear Lord, have you been put in charge of the Greenwich business?

Let me see if I can turn up some supplementary information for you. I shan't be able to reveal my sources, but it might give you some additional leads. I suppose you also now have access to two Holmes instead of one. Do tell me, if I can be of assistance.

Thank you for your close care of my brother.

I shall leave you an update when I am back from the clinic this evening. There's no need to reply, if you are otherwise busy.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 26 July 2017 21:31_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Lestrade,

A number of documents are waiting in your in-tray at Scotland Yard. They should open some new avenues for you with the Greenwich business. Shred them when you've finished with them. And obviously, they were not supplied to you by me.

I've just returned from seeing Sherlock... his pain has been rather severe all evening. The consultants suspect the dose of one of his various pharmaceuticals needs to be adjusted. Nothing to worry about, I'm assured.

The redhead on the reception desk asked if you would be visiting my brother again this week. I opted for "I don't know". I'm sure you're very capable of arranging your own romantic life... forgive me for declining to act as a go-between. Suffice to say I believe you have a fan.

But do be aware that she has at least one jealous ex-boyfriend who has served time, and a fairly serious addiction to online shopping.

I'm certain you'll be too busy anyway, but if you could not contact me before 9am tomorrow morning... I need to sleep off a fairly serious headache.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  09:01_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr. Holmes,

Thank you for letting me have those documents, we will be very discreet.

Hopefully by tomorrow they will have a handle on Sherlock's medication?  Does he want for anything? Chocolate biscuits?

As for the redhead, we know each other of old - and she's erm... not my type. Maybe the hair colour, but that's about it.

Don't worry about being a go between, it's definitely not needed.

Sorry about your headache? Are you prone to migraine?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 10:20_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Increasingly prone to migraine, I'm afraid. Family trait, exacerbated by a government job and a spectacular inability to look after myself.

Sherlock did mention something about chocolate digestives. Have you been smuggling things into him? (I am not angry, unless 'chocolate digestives' is some new hideous urban code word for cocaine, in which case I am angry.)

Heavens, have I happened upon an ex-girlfriend? I must compile a list of questions for her. There are many, many things I need to ask.

(I am joking.)

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  10:46_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr. Holmes,

Who do you think put her ex behind bars!

I can also tell you that apart from the hair colour, she's not my type. At all.

I'll get Sherlock some chocolate biscuits, he could do with a bit of extra weight. As long as he doesn't get like me, he will be fine.

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 10:51_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

You were her knight in shining armour, were you? A fortunate young woman.

She seemed fairly perky and approachable to me. I'd have imagined that was quite amenable to you. Dare I ask what's wrong with her? Apart from the online shopping and the jailbird ex-boyfriend.

And can I inquire how many chocolate biscuits you consume per day?

I need to know how many I now need to eat, to acquire the athletic figure that you somehow possess at our age.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  10:59_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Yeah perky? My ex was perky too! Seriously? I'm off perky. You sound keen though.

I'm sure you keep up with her shopping habits.

As for biscuits? As you know, I'm more of a cake man, I so wish I had taken a piece of that espresso cake ' _to go'._

Mind you, did I hint sarcasm about my stomach? I'm doing ok for fifty... but yeah need to start working out a bit more.

I don't get nearly as much  exercise as I used to.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 11:07_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Ah, she's... not my type either. A charming young woman, I'm sure, but rather off my radar.

And not a whiff of sarcasm, inspector, I assure you. May we all be lucky enough to resemble heroic detective inspectors.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  11:15_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Well just because I'm in a good mood now you helped me out with the case, I have a few minutes to be nosey.

And because I'm convinced you will never deport me.

So what is your -  type?

Is that like asking what brand of loo roll the queen uses?

After all you brought it up. I would offer you recommendations, but not sure anyone here is your type. No offence.

DI Lestrade

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 11:22_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

She uses Andrex Quilted.

And no... I imagine Scotland Yard might prove fairly slim hunting grounds for the likes of me. You're very kind, but even for someone to share a glass of wine with me would probably require several hours of MI5 paperwork to be filled out first. I'm not sure any of your staff could take the strain.

I... tend to prefer fairly classic types, I suppose.

Is that evasive enough?

If you're averse to 'perky', then you are probably the type who prefers school ma'ams, I imagine. Angry librarians who take off their glasses at you. Not enough discipline as a child, was it? Or touch me?

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 11:23_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Ah! 'Too much'!

Not - 'touch me'.

A predictive text error.

Heaven help us.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  15:05_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr. Holmes,

Hmm, we managed coffee and cake without MI5 paperwork... or is it the wine or the women that turn you into a hyper vigilant, minor government official?

School ma'am? Nope. Especially ones that were too "touchy-feely", was that a Freudian slip? Is that your thing? - School ma'am, whipping her glasses off, letting her hair down.. bit cheesy, wouldn't have thought that your style!

By the way, what is this? You trying to set me up to keep me out of your hair?

NSY doesn't afford rich pickings for me either. I am doomed to be alone and to take compliments on my physique from other lonely old buggers.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 15:24_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

I'd been unaware our coffee and cake was a date... should I send over the mountain of retroactive paperwork this morning or this afternoon?

I'll have you know I am not a lonely old bugger. And nor have I an interest in school ma'ams, thank you.

Shall I keep the compliments on your physique to myself from hereon?

Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  15:58_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Ok did I did say date? I didn't mean... oh God, well I meant it wasn't a meeting. I'll stop digging now. I seem to be nearing the time where I provoke an inadvertent Mycroft meltdown, I'll just find something productive to do.

Christ, just trying to be friendly. I need to get more! This jobs turning me into a lonely old bugger, even if yours affords you your every whim.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:04_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

I'm actually rather calm recently. Perhaps I have hit that magical low point where things cannot possibly get any worse, and so I cease to worry...

In truth, it's rather nice to be distracted.

And 'every whim'? Hardly.

Not easy to maintain a social life when everyone is quite spectacularly terrified of you.

You don't seem to be afraid, though. You never have been.

I think I could count the number of people who've shouted at me on one hand. You are one of them.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:09_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Well Mycroft, I'm not scared of you. Maybe - I don't know. Maybe, I have known Sherlock a long time, see the way he covers his emotions.

I reckon you do too. Don't worry though, I won't tell anyone :)

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:12_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Indeed? An interesting hypothesis.

You have rather a knack for finding and unleashing my well-covered anger. I'll give you that.

Perhaps I should be grateful you've never set your mind on making me weep or laugh. From previous experience it seems you'd be rather good at it.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  16:15_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Well, I think I said this before Mycroft, I reckon we are similar in some ways. Maybe why I wind you up so much.

Do you ever go out for a pint, is that not done in your circles? You know just to wind down?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:17_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

I occasionally partake of a glass of wine after work... though rarely do I get to do so with company.

How is Greenwich proceeding? Are there any small matters relating to the documents I could clear up?

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  16:20_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

...... ok change of subject noted......

An arrest is imminent. Thanks for your help.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:23_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Heaven help us. For a _detective_ , Lestrade...

I was suggesting that if you perhaps _wished_ to go for a pint, or a drink of some kind, you and I have things that could be discussed over a drink.

Or... was there something else we'd be discussing?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:34_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Unless of course you weren't hinting that at all, and I have now embarrassed myself royally.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  16:37_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

No, sorry distracted with a call.

Not sure why you be emabarrased by wanting to go out for a drink? Just say when and where!

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:40_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Please disregard previous messages... I've had a long week. I briefly forgot myself. Apologies if I misread you.

I hope the Greenwich arrest plays out successfully.

M Holmes.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  16:42_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

So, you don't want to go out for a drink with me now?

Jesus... ok.... I don't know whether I'm coming or going with you?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:49_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

For a long time I've considered you quite hard to read, Lestrade. Most people might as well have their thoughts written across their foreheads for me to read at my leisure.

But I can't manage it with you. I've been unsure why.

Now I'm starting to suspect it is because you are very uncomplicated.

That is new for me.

You say you care for Sherlock, and you do. You say you will keep his ramblings to yourself, and you do. You say you will take him chocolate biscuits, and I have no doubt he'll be eating them before the day is out.

I'm... sorry if I complicate matters.

It's rather my profession. It's hard to put that aside when faced with an uncomplicated man. I spend my life trading lies with liars. Now you appear, baffling me with your honesty.

I would love to have a drink.

Is there a... pub you prefer? Somewhere you'd recommend?

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  16:54_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr Holmes

You are right, I am what I am. I have long since stopped apologising for my downfalls.

I was a crap husband because I put all my energy into my work, but I am a good copper.

Now, I just want a quiet life, good conversation, and a beer every now and again.

So yeah, we will go for a beer, I don't care where but definitely not with the NSY lot. Nice to get away from them yeah?

I do know a place in Epping but it's a bit of a drive, so if we both wanted a pint probably not the best idea.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 16:57_

Inspector,

I can arrange a car for us... not often I use them for personal outings, but I suppose just this once... I'll have you picked up outside Scotland Yard at 6pm, if that suits.

If there's alcohol involved, do bring along a pen... all that paperwork won't fill itself in.

Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  17:02_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr Holmes,

A pen? Paperwork? Seriously? What is it exactly what you do again ?

You expect me to what sign a secret non disclosure document or something?

:) maybe I should get you to do the same, would hate for you to spread around anything I might say after a couple of malts.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 17:05_

 

Lestrade, I'm teasing you. Unless you're planning to seduce me after the couple of malts, there's no need for paperwork.

I think I can safely say you are no threat to the security of the British government on _this_ occasion.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  17:08_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Mr. Holmes, you are expecting me to hit on you?

Jesus, what's been said about me?  I hate the rumour milll at NSY.

Anyway, if making you angry almost landed me in Mexico, I wouldn't risk anything else that might land me in Outer Mongolia!

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 17:10_

 

Nobody's said anything to me... I was teasing you again. I'll try to flag it up next time so you can spot it.

Why? Do you make a habit of hitting on government officials? I may have missed something.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  17:14_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Sorry, i'm being dull.. and touchy..... not the government official thing. The bloke thing... the rumours come round once in a while, and I don't see why I should play the rumour game.

No ones business!

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 17:20_

 

"The bloke thing"?

Lestrade, I... might have misread you again here. If you are joking, do point it out for me with neon lights. As I say, I've had a long week and I have no wish to offend you.

But if you're indicating what I think you are, then... suffice to say I had no idea. No-one had said anything to me.

'Not your type'...

Too much oestrogen?

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  17:22_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Jesus why am I telling you this?

Yeah ok?

If you want to change your mind, do so now, but I promise I will keep my hands to myself. I'm not that desperate!

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017 17:33_

 

Mm. Heaven forbid anyone should be so desperate as to lay their hands on _me_.

For the record, Lestrade, you aren't the only gay man in London.

You're not the only gay man close to Sherlock, either - who I've just realised has nobody scheduled to visit him this evening, so I shall have to postpone our drinks until some future night when John can be there to sit with Sherlock.

I don't want my brother to be alone.

Enjoy your evening.

Mycroft Holmes.  
\- Patron of Oxford University Alumni LGBT Union.  
\- Founding Supporter of Oxford University LGBT History Month.  
\- Trustee of Greater London Gay Welfare.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 27 July 2017  17:35_

_Subject: Re: My brother._

 

Hang on, hang on... stop Holmes!

I meant I don't PUT my hands where uninvited EVER.

OH SHIT MYCROFT...  I realise how that sounded. I also realise you are telling me something, unless I'm wrong again....

Look, John is with Sherlock this evening, he just picked up the biscuits. So reconsider the drink?

I owe you an apology!


	11. First Night: Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We thought you'd like to read both Greg and Mycroft's experiences of the following events. This chapter is from Mycroft's POV; the next is from Greg. Enjoy. x

* * *

Mycroft got home for six. He locked the door, wrenched the tie from round his neck, then drank two fingers of scotch half-dressed in the bathroom while waiting for the bath to run.

Any other day, he'd have emailed Dick... flirted gently all evening, pretending to himself that he wasn't really Mycroft Holmes - lonely, tired and isolated. Instead, he was the suave and erudite Alton Beckett, purring softly at his favourite reader.

But he'd somehow fucked it up. Hadn't even met the man, and crippled it before it started. Drunken lecherous emails. _Mortifying._ Even more so than the lechery, he'd told Dick how lonely he was. Mycroft's misery had bled through into Alton - his playground, his sanctuary - spoiled him.

Three years. Three years without a lover's comfort.

He remembered that last one-night stand. It had been awful. He remembered the faint expression of reluctance as he'd nuzzled at the man's lips, longing to be kissed. "I don't do kissing," he'd said. _Mid_ -coitus. Using Mycroft's body for an orgasm was apparently fine, but kissing was not. Mycroft should have kicked him from the bed and called him a taxi.

But loneliness was a vicious thing - it damaged all his reason and sense.

Just like now.

It had been madness to flirt with Greg Lestrade. But sweet Christ, it had felt so good... Mycroft's heart had threatened to lurch from his chest as he'd read those words... 'the bloke thing'. It had been the finest moment of the last three years of his life. Greg Lestrade was _gay_. It was nothing short of a miracle. Of all the handsome men out there in the world, Greg Lestrade with his velvet brown eyes and his jaw and his boyish grin and his shoulders was _gay_.

And for just a few fragile minutes, Mycroft had hoped... hoped that Greg Lestrade might not just be _gay_ , but might be _his_.

So much for hope.

Mycroft lowered himself into the burning hot water. He slid beneath the surface for a moment, letting it wash over his face and his hair, and came up with a gasp. He pushed the hot water from his eyes. They'd screwed tight shut. He let them stay that way, rubbing his forehead hard as he curled around himself a little in the water. He wished he could stop seeing those words.

_I'm not that desperate._

Holy God, it hurt. It had been the textual equivalent of getting hit in the face with a shovel.

_I am going to grow old alone_ , Mycroft thought, as something inside his chest twisted with pain, his face still buried in his hands. He should have spent less time working. There'd been young men at university, lots of them - back when he was young and lithe and handsome, and truly thought he was the greatest thing in the world. Sometimes he could still do an impression of that young man. For a while, at least.

That version of himself was gone though - long gone. Along with all of Mycroft's prospects.

He wished he could reached back in time, shake himself by the shoulders and tell his younger self just to _pick one_ , stop flitting around with so many, and _stay_ with the man, and have done with it. Then at least he'd have someone to sleep with at night.

Nobody had touched him with loving hands for three years. Nobody had kissed him for longer.

Now he'd lost even Dick's gentle words on a screen. He'd lost Lestrade's chatty emails. He knew that if he called his assistant, there could be a very high-class male escort dispatched round here in minutes - but dear _God_ , that was a standard to which he could not bear to sink. Better to curl up and expire with the loneliness, than to pay someone to spend the night in his bed. The last scraps of his dignity wouldn't take it. It made him want to die at the very thought.

Silent in the bath, Mycroft washed his hair. He washed his face, letting the warm water flush over his cheeks and blend the tears away. He washed his body - it felt as if those words, _not that desperate_ , were written all over him, and he did his best to wash them off, his heart straining miserably in his chest.

The rest of his fans were waiting on another chapter. He couldn't bear to write though.

He couldn't bear to do anything.

As the bath drained, Mycroft dried himself quietly on a towel and avoided his own eyes in the mirror.

He needed not to think tonight. He felt too fragile to read - perhaps TV instead, he thought. It wasn't often he made use of the television, but the sight of faces and the sound of voices might quieten the worst pangs of his despair.

He dressed himself in loose grey linen trousers and an old white shirt, buttoning it only halfway, then settled for the evening in the immaculate cream-coloured bedroom of his Belgravia home. At the touch of a button, the TV rose sleekly from the foot of the bed. Mycroft flicked through channels for a while, found an old episode of _Inspector Morse,_ had two more fingers of scotch and half-buried himself within the covers, watching in silence.

The room grew dark around him. He knew he should get up and put lights on. There seemed little point though.

It was almost eight o' clock.

_Bzzzzzzzt._

Mycroft rolled his eyes as the harsh judder of his intercom sounded through the house. None of the staff were around. He'd warned them, before he'd even arrived home, that he expected to be left alone tonight. He sighed, extracted himself from the covers and made his way through his darkened bedroom to the stairs, where a panel was mounted on the wall.

He jammed the button with his fingers and said, exhausted, "Yes?"

There came the distinct sound of a deep breath being taken.

"Mycroft Holmes! It's Greg Lestrade..."

Mycroft's eyes closed.

"I believe we have things to talk about!"

Mycroft laid his forehead against the wall for a second, fingers still pressed against the intercom. He didn't know if it picked up on his sigh or not. He didn't care.

"What do you want?" he asked, numb. "I'm... busy, inspector."

He frowned, realising.

"How did you get my address?"

"Did you read my last email?" Greg asked. "Mr Holmes, if you don't want to speak with me… at least please read that message. I'm such an arse."

Mycroft bit the side of his tongue. He'd read the last e-mail. He wasn't sure how convinced by it he was - he'd learned that usually, when a person said two things, they'd meant the first one.

And it was so hard to trust.

His heart contracted a little, supposing Greg had at least come all the way out here. He couldn't keep him standing at the gate.

Still with his head pressed to the wall, and with his eyes still closed, Mycroft slid his fingers across the intercom to unlock the gates.

He then made his way down through the house in silence, barefoot, not bothering to turn on the lights as he went. At last he unlocked the front door from the inside, then took a moment to prepare himself for the sight of damn Greg Lestrade and his jaw and his shoulders.

As he opened the front door, his expression was completely neutral.

An apologetic detective inspector was waiting on his doorstep. He stepped back to let Lestrade in, saying nothing, his eyes lowered.

"I am so sorry," Greg began, as soon as he entered the hallway. "Truly. I really didn't mean that the way it sounded. God, you must think I'm some sort of heartless bastard."

Mycroft said nothing. It was less that Greg was a heartless bastard, he thought - just honest - it was, after all, not Greg's fault that Mycroft was undesirable. The truth was often a bitter taste.

"Jesus, I... I would never say that. Well.... _mean_ that. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry for insulting you that way."

Mycroft listened without reaction for a few moments more, taking in what seemed to be a heartfelt apology.

His soul and his head immediately hauled his thoughts in two different directions - the first, noting that Greg had gone out of his way to be here, to apologise in person, and to say sorry immediately and unreservedly; the second (and far more bitter) voice, telling him that what came out of a person's mouth first was always the unguarded truth, no matter how much it hurt.

He realised, all at once, how desperately _tired_ he was.

When he was young, love had been so easy and fun. A pastime. He wondered to himself when that had changed.

He lowered his eyes, gave a silent sigh, and said,

"It's - quite alright, inspector. I am not offended."

It was a lie. Mycroft didn't even have the energy to make it sound convincing.

"You god-damn liar," Greg said. Mycroft looked up in surprise. ""Look, I work for the system. New Scotland Yard is a hard trough to wade through, but _you_? You work for God knows who, have all the shit in the world to deal with, and I made you feel like crap - and I'm sorry. Don't tell me it's okay. Don't tell me I didn't upset you. I was in the wrong and I'm trying to apologise."

Mycroft realised, to his alarm, that Lestrade was shaking.

His blue-grey eyes flickered with unease as Greg fniished. He was finding it harder and harder to keep the fragility off his face. He'd never had someone try so desperately to apologise to him before. Greg seemed almost as upset as he was. It was a long time since he'd inspired emotion like that in someone, and it made his heart thump painfully in his chest.

He breathed in, steadying himself. Just a few hours ago they'd talked about being honest. Greg's unfortunate words had almost shocked it out of Mycroft's head, but it returned now.

"I'm not - ..." Mycroft hesitated, breathing in; this was not easy. "... - under any illusions as to my - desirability as a partner, inspector. Hardly something I claim to excel at. Hardly something I care about."

His expression shifted as he bit his tongue.

"Not all of us want legions of red-heads following us around."

Greg seemed to breathe deeply for a moment. "Can we sit down at least?"

Mycroft was too tired to refuse. He led the way to the sitting room, and they sat down - Greg in the overstuffed armchair that was usually Mycroft, Mycroft on the edge of the adjoining sofa.

"Mr Holmes," Greg said - with care. " _Mycroft_. It seems like we've been to hell and back this week. I haven't a clue why we seem to bring out this response in each other. But I'd rather not leave until we've made our peace."

Mycroft listened quietly. It was… strangely moving. Plenty of people had hit Mycroft Holmes's heavily-guarded exterior and given up. Now, here was someone attempting to go the distance.

"I was actually looking forward to a drink tonight," Greg said. "Decent conversation - I might not look it, but I _can_ hold a conversation about something other than burgers and doughnuts. Then when you kept on about bloody women, I didn't know how to shut you up. You just seemed so shocked. I'm used to keeping things quiet. Everyone knows I was married, but... yeah I suppose I must give hits on some ' _gaydars_ ' out there... I know there's talk about me. I just panicked. I suppose worried you worried I was gonna hit on you! I was just saying, I don't do that... not unless I know it's wanted."

Mycroft looked down at his hands, giving a humourless smile as Greg finished. He supposed they'd all been there - a straight man's fear of a predatory gay man was not a laughing matter. People had been killed for much less.

In a way, he thought, it was Lestrade's sense of honour had caused a problem... trying to reassure Mycroft he would be safe from his attentions. Mycroft almost laughed at the thought. As if anyone in the world would feel _aggrieved_ at being hit on by _Greg_ _Lestrade_... certainly, for Mycroft, for a small handful of minutes earlier in the day, nothing in the world had seemed a more delightful prospect.

At last, with a quiet flicker of his eyes into Greg's, he said,

"You are... kind to come to speak to me." He hesitated. "Kind to persevere."

Hell, he thought, the man was _beautiful_. Those _eyes_.

"I was rather looking forward to a drink too. You're easy to converse with."

Greg gave him a small, tired smile. There was a pause between them - not uncomfortable.

"So…" Greg said, at last. "What does a man need to do around here to get a drink?"

Mycroft couldn't hold in a small laugh - tired, drained, but amused all the same. He was so _easy_ , Mycroft thought. He was just so trustable. How someone had been able to bring herself to divorce Greg Lestrade, he didn't know.

"I haven't any beer, I'm afraid..." Mycroft said. An idea occurred. "I - have a French brandy I've been saving. I don't know if you even drink brandy, but... it's a rather special one, if you do."

He stood up carefully from the sofa, realising Greg was still in his coat.

"Oh... here. If you're staying for a drink, let me take your coat..."

Greg stood up, letting Mycroft take the coat for him. As he did, Mycroft did his best not to gaze in open want at those shoulders. _Damn, where has this come from?_ He'd barely ever noticed people's shoulders before he'd met Greg Lestrade. Now he couldn't go near the man without imagining what it would feel like to cling onto those gorgeous shoulders while - … _damn it all to hell, stop it._

He took Greg's coat away to the hall. As he hung it up, his hands brushed the fabric gently - he couldn't help but linger near it a moment longer. Material that spent all day wrapped around Greg Lestrade. It still had a little warmth in it.

He paused, knowing full well that he was pathetic and this was an undignified thing to do.

He leant near to the coat, silently breathing its smell as deep into his lungs as he could draw it. _Oh, holy hell…_ His head spun slowly for a few moments, overwhelmed by that scent. That was the scent of Greg Lestrade. He would smell like that when he woke up in the morning, when he got in after a long day.

Mycroft clamped down on his thoughts with a cold steel grip. He stepped away from the coat, straightened himself, and went to the kitchen for brandy.

As he returned to the living room, carrying the bottle and two glasses, Greg seemed to have slipped briefly into another world. He was gazing across at one of Mycroft's many bookshelves, thinking something fascinating.

Mycroft approached him, quietly, and held the glass to his hand.

Greg looked up with a blink, and then smiled.

Mycroft smiled, too. His eyes shimmered a little.

He didn't want to go back to the sofa on his own. Then again, he thought, he couldn't exactly just clamber into the armchair with Greg.

"I'll have someone take you home afterwards," he promised. He sat back down on the sofa, folding his long legs carefully beneath himself. "I wouldn't want you to risk driving... not after French brandy."

He took a first sip of brandy, keeping his eyes on Greg over the rim. He watched as the inspector drank.

"Oh - that's good…" he said. "Thank you. Better than beer."

Mycroft smiled slightly. He liked seeing Greg Lestrade enjoy things. Coffee, cake, brandy.

He wanted to lighten the mood. He wanted to see him enjoy conversation, too.

"So... what _is_ your type?" he inquired, a little playful.

Greg smiled, eyes brightened. "Well, I told you… I like redheads. I like intelligence. I like someone who can stand up to me, but who doesn't take the piss… y'know?" He sipped at his brandy. "What about you?"

Mycroft wondered immediately if his own admittedly waning hair colour placed him in the category that Greg considered to be 'red-heads'. At university, there'd have been no doubt in the matter - perhaps he would have to find some old photographs and strew them prominently around where Greg would stumble across them.

Below the neck, too, Mycroft's hair kept a lot more of its colour - along with the light scattering of freckles that so often came free with the genes.

And heavens above, that was something he wanted Greg to discover.

More than anything, he wanted to cross the lounge, take Greg's brandy glass and put it aside - ease onto his lap, take the man's face gently in his hands, and murmur to him that his type was handsome grey-haired police inspectors with dark-eyed grins called Gregory Lestrade. Kiss him, slow. Take him up the stairs, and do something else to him slow.

But the emotional wound he'd received today - though now cleaned and dressed - was still sore.

He'd extended himself several times lately - reaching for people out of loneliness and need. He'd then been hurt, and today hurt badly.

His inner fires - so vital for seduction - burned low. He didn't have the bravery in him to seduce right now.

It was good just to gaze at Lestrade, though. Even just looking at the man gave him almost physical enjoyment.

With all this in his mind, he smiled a little into his brandy glass, taking a moment to construct a suitably discreet answer. His earlier scotch had eased his defences. It was becoming much harder to keep the thoughts off his face.

"I meant what I said," he replied. "'Classic' types. Strong, and handsome, and brave... all shoulders and jaw. Men who smell of leather and cologne."

He hesitated, the playfulness glittering softly in his eyes as he took a quiet sip of brandy.

"Always had rather a weakness for straight-acting, if I'm honest... alas that the paperwork is miles away in my office."

Greg said nothing for quite some time. Mycroft sipped his brandy, wondering if he'd said too much - if the truth had been too clear in the admittedly transparent joke. Was Lestrade about to make an excuse, run from the house and never look back?

He risked a glance up at Greg.

And what was _that_ facial expression? he wondered. Greg was watching him as if he'd never quite seen Mycroft properly before.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow slightly, about to ask.

Then Greg took a deep breath; and whispered, "Kiss me?"

Mycroft felt his heart contract - hard. For a moment, he was sure he'd misheard.

But there was no mistaking that look in Greg's eyes.

The air grew suddenly thick.

Mycroft looked down into his brandy glass. The amber liquid gleamed up at him, dark. _This is a dream,_ he thought _. Or I am dead._ In a single motion he drank the brandy glass's contents. He then put it aside, and stood up from the sofa.

He held Greg's gaze in his own as he approached the armchair. He was sure his heart was about to beat itself apart - sure that Greg would hear it hammering in the quiet space.

He climbed into Greg's lap. The loose linen of his trousers stirred across the muscular denim-clad thighs as he settled astride them. Barely breathing, he placed his hands gently around Greg's jaw - a little stubble - and _oh_ _fuck_ , those cheekbones. Those eyes. Mycroft gazed into them, drowning in their deep brown perfection for a few moments of pounding silence.

He then lowered his lips towards Greg's - closing his eyes.

At the last moment, he stopped.

His lips hesitated, a single breath away.

"This will change things," he whispered. His fingertips trembled on Greg's jaw. "Irrevocably."

Greg audibly took a breath. He turned his head towards Mycroft's lips.

As they kissed, Greg sighed into his mouth. "Ohh, God…"

_Oh, heaven. Oh, hell. Oh, God help me._ Mycroft felt the world as he knew it shattering into pieces around them as Gregory Lestrade pulled him closer, tongue easing between his lips. The gentle roughness of stubble across his chin made his heart-rate spike, his blood scorching suddenly at a hundred degrees as every inch of his skin prickled with pleasure. He shivered as they kissed, tasting his best brandy in Greg's mouth. Protective hands wrapped slowly around his torso.

He couldn't stifle a soft moan of excitement.

Oh, but this was _wonderful._ It was _everything._ He knew he should be mortified at how quickly and how desperately hard he'd become - but he didn't care. He just needed to keep kissing the man.

"Oh," he whimpered against Greg's lips, shaking. He smelt so good. "Oh, _fuck.._."

Greg's hands were stroking down his back now, petting him like a beloved animal - Mycroft found himself shivering in delight. His heart whimpered with distress as Greg then let go of his lips, only to begin trailing kissing down Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft's head fell back, panting softly. He found himself shivering in desperation. He carded his quivering fingers carded gently through Greg's dark grey hair, his eyes lulling shut with joy.

He'd never felt like this in his life. Three years of misery was blowing apart with every kiss, every gentle movement of Greg's hands.

He wanted those hands on his skin - all over him. Everywhere.

As Greg's hot breath played across his nipple through his thin cotton shirt, Mycroft let out a noise of despair.

"Stay," he begged, his throat tightening. He cried out softly at the gentle bite. His cheeks flushed a deep and soft red. "Stay the night..."

"Myc…" Greg murmured; his voice cracked a little. "Mycroft, are you sure? You need to tell me what you want."

Mycroft looked down; Greg was gazing up at him, those deep brown eyes, heartbreakingly beautiful and now fixed entirely on his face, full of emotion.

"I… I can't deal with _next morning regrets_. Please be sure..."

Mycroft's heart heaved. Greg cared. He cared so much. Even now, he was checking Mycroft was okay, checking this was alright.

"I'm sure," Mycroft breathed, the words leaving him in a rush. His eyes flickered shut as he kissed Greg, deeply, his pale fingers seeking slowly down Greg's chest - skimming over buttons he was desperate to pull apart, feeling beneath the fabric those muscles he longed to put his mouth upon. He felt drunk. He felt safe. He felt perfect. "I want you," he whispered. "I've wanted you for months… you're magnificent."

He pushed closer to Greg, shuddering softly.

"I want to feel your body on top of me," he begged. "I want to kiss you as you're inside me. I want to know what your voice sounds like as you come. I - don't want to sleep. Please. In the morning we'll talk. I just... need to... please..."

As Greg reached for Mycroft's shirt buttons, visibly swallowing, Mycroft's stomach twisted itself immediately inside out.

"You are fucking lovely," Greg breathed, deftly slipping the buttons free. Mycroft's eyes fell shut, his whole body aching to be touched. He needed those hands on his skin. He needed them _now_. Joy seared in his soul like the song of a violin. "How can you ever doubt that?"

Mycroft could not speak; happiness was whiting out his every thought.

Greg pushed open his shirt, whispering, "Fuck… sweet Jesus..."

He then lowered his mouth to Mycroft's chest.

As Greg licked him, the soft tongue flicking at his nipples, Mycroft bit down into his lip in a futile attempt to stifle his moans. It didn't work. He could feel Greg's thickened cock pressing up against his own, and _oh God,_ this was going to get intense. He'd never wanted anything more in his life.

But there was only so much they could do to each other in an armchair. He scrabbled his few shreds of control together, swallowing hard.

"Greg - ..."

_Fuck,_ it even felt good to say the man's name.

"Bed," he whimpered. He caught Greg's hands, and pulled him from the armchair.

Upstairs, Mycroft's bedroom was still shrouded in darkness. The vast, silk-sheeted bed was still illuminated by the flickering of the television screen, adverts set to mute. Mycroft led Greg in by the hand, his heart pounding, guiding him backwards towards the bed.

He gazed into Greg's eyes as he did, unable to look away.

"You don't know how many nights I've thought about this," he confessed. "About you."

He pushed Greg gently back onto the bed. At the sight of Greg Lestrade laid upon the crumpled silk sheets of his bed, breathing hard and heavy, Mycroft immediately decided to restart his faith in some kind of benevolent deity.

"What do you want?" Greg asked him, his voice hoarse. “Tell me what you want me to do for you.”

Heart pounding, his shirt loose and open, and his cheeks still flushed with arousal, Mycroft knelt astride Greg's hips and began to undo the buttons on his shirt one-by-one. He swallowed thickly as more and more dark-haired chest began to appear.

"Just... be in my bed. Let me touch you," he breathed. He pulled open the final button, raking his hands desperately over the mouth-watering expanse of chest now bared to him. "Oh, hell..." he gasped. "You are glorious - ..."

He leant down, nuzzling beneath Greg's jaw and grazing restless kisses over his neck and shoulders, as he reached down between them for the fastening of Greg's jeans. He'd never so gladly undone a zipper.

"Oh God," he moaned, softly, pushing a hand inside the unzipped denim and curling around Greg's thick, fabric-covered cock - steel wrapped in cotton. "You're huge..."

He laved his tongue across Greg's throat, shivering as he stroked slowly at the man's cock, rubbing the bunched cotton up and down his hardened shaft.

Greg's groan shuddered through his entire soul.

"Ohhh - …" he groaned. "Been so long…"

He leant up for Mycroft, kissed him, caught Mycroft's bottom lip between his teeth and pulled gently. Mycroft let out a sound that in the light of day would make him wince. Greg began to unfasten his loose linen trousers, pulling and pushing at the fabric until he'd found his way inside.

Mycroft shuddered to the soul as Greg's hands encircled him. His expression tightened with a fissure of pleasure. Had a lover's hands always felt this good?

He knew the answer at once was 'no'.

_Greg's_ hands felt this good. None other.

"God," Greg breathed, stroking him. Mycroft pushed into his hands, gasping weakly against the man's magnificent neck, breathing that perfect gorgeous scent deep, deep into his lungs. Greg smelt like sex. He smelt like sheer joy. His hands were warm and a little rough in texture, his grip firm and assured, stroking Mycroft like he'd dreamed about it all day. "I need this…"

Struggling to form thought, Mycroft freed Greg's heavy cock from his boxers, wrapping it with his fist and stroking slowly. A groan escaped his lover's mouth.

They would not be sleeping for hours, he thought. When Greg Lestrade left this house in the morning, it would be in the secure knowledge that no-one in this world could make him his body ache like Mycroft Holmes could. Mycroft was going to ensure it.

He started by kissing his way slowly down Greg's torso, nuzzling into the dark softness of his chest hair and drinking in that perfect scent, delighting in the gasped obscenity he heard from up the bed. He paused at Greg's navel to take hold of his boxers and jeans, pulled them free and casting them away across the bedroom.

He then settled between Greg's knees, gathering his heavy cock slowly into the wet warmth of his mouth. He'd missed this. He'd missed it so much. A lover's thickness in his mouth, easing into his throat - and a lover like Greg… a shiver of contentment spread lazily from the root of his spine all up through his body, closing his eyes. He laved Greg's prick with his tongue, drawing him slowly deeper, and the tip of his nose soon nuzzled gently into the dark hair at the base of Greg's cock. He slid his lips expertly back and forth, so turned on he could barely think, resolving to himself that this was only the first of many times he went down on Greg Lestrade.

The sound of panting, and the feel of hands coaxing in his hair, sent pleasurable shudders skittering the full length of his back. It had been so long since he felt desired - _wanted -_ like this. He could feel the telltale gentle jerks of Greg's hips that meant he was fighting not to fuck Mycroft's mouth, and that just wouldn't do. Mycroft redoubled his efforts, soothing his splayed hands either side of Greg's hips and encouraging him to rock upwards into Mycroft's throat.

Part of him wanted to finish Greg this way - take care of him, let him find his release in his mouth.

But there was so much more he wanted, too.

He worked Greg with his mouth until the sounds coming from him were tight and desperate, and he was clearly within a whisper of climax - then, gently sliding his lips back from his pulsing cock, pressed a kiss beneath his navel and crawled back up the bed to him.

He fell upon Greg, kissing him deeply - cupping his face gently in his hands.

"Shhh..." he whispered against Greg's restless mouth. "Shhh... there's more. I'm not done with you."

He stroked a kiss over those perfect lips.

"God on high," he whimpered. "You are... _so_ handsome... I would suck your cock all night if I could..."

Greg's eyes flared. In one swoop he pushed Mycroft back onto the bed, chuckling at Mycroft's gasp.

"Your turn, gorgeous," he whispered. Mycroft's heart contracted hard, fluttering with desperation. "Here… let me..."

He pushed at Mycroft's legs, motioning for him to bend them up - which Mycroft did without pause, his pulse racing with panic and excitement. He'd never felt so vulnerable and so desperate at once. Greg reached up to retrieve a pillow, his eyes smouldering.

"Up, " he murmured, tapping Mycroft's hips. Mycroft bit his lip, obeying; Greg slid the pillow gently beneath him.  

He then eased down the bed, resting on his belly between Mycroft's thighs. Mycroft felt his cock twitch hopefully - but Greg ignoring it, laving instead a thick stroke of his tongue right across Mycroft's balls. Mycroft's heart imploded on the spot. He choked, his heart falling back into the pillows, and bit hard into his lip as Greg nuzzled and nipped and kissed gently at his balls, teasing him, making him pant.

"Myc," he murmured. "Can I… lick you? Back here?"

A thumb, wet with saliva, flashed across Mycroft's entrance.

_Ohmygod. Oh God. Oh, holy God._ Mycroft sputtered a broken sound that he hoped Greg realised meant yes.

At the first lick, Mycroft dissolved into whimpers.

Long minutes went by, his sounds of pleasure tightening and escalated in pitch as he fought not to come with every flicker, every push, every long and delicious caress of hot tongue between his legs. He ground his head back into the pillows and panted, whimpering, all dignity abandoned. His entire body shimmered with sweat. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had done this for him. He remembered it hadn't felt like _this._

The silk sheets twisted beneath him as he writhed, his thighs trembling, his cock untouched and burning against his belly as Greg worked him higher and higher through spirals of pleasure - pleasure he'd forgotten could exist, pleasure he wasn't sure he'd even reached before.

As he coursed with it, shivering, exhaling faint sobs and cries into the quiet darkness, that gentle name Greg had called him glowed in his heart. _Gorgeous._ It made him want to weep.

By the time Greg eased away from him, his heart was pounding so fast he feared he would pass out.

"P-Please - ..." He reached for Greg, desperately drawing him closer - every muscle in his body shook. He shuddered at the skin-to-skin contact, swallowed hard, and reached a trembling hand up to the nightstand.

Tugging open the drawer, he whispered to Greg,

"There's - lubricant. Small glass bottle. Please. _"_ He gazed into the other man's eyes, feeling more vulnerable in this moment than he'd ever felt in his life, his pupils swollen and his cheeks blazing with colour. "Greg, I... I need..."

He bit his lower lip, tightening his thighs around Greg's waist.

"Have me," he breathed. "Pin me. Fuck me. Please."

Greg's pupils swelled. He reached up for the drawer.

As Mycroft turned onto his front, his heart hammering, he heard Greg's voice speak in soft urgency.

"No," he soothed. "No, Myc... not like that. I wanna see you."

He nudged Mycroft over onto his back - kissing him, pushing his thighs gently apart, and Mycroft felt his entire soul begin to glow with desperate joy and need. Greg Lestrade between his thighs. How could this be happening? How could it be true?

"I wanna see you when I fuck you," Greg whispered. Mycroft bit down on his tight sound of excitement, reeling. "I wanna kiss you and worship you… please don't turn away from me."

_Oh, my God._ Mycroft watched between his own open thighs, panting, as Greg rolled the condom slowly over his erect cock. He could see Greg's chest rising and falling deeply; he wanted this. He really wanted this. He wanted to be inside Mycroft - wanted to see him, kiss him, _worship_ him.

"Okay, sweetheart…" he murmured. Mycroft swallowed, hard. _Sweetheart._ That perfect word pounded in him like a second pulse. "Hold on for the ride of your life…"

Over the next few minutes, as Greg slowly and gently fucked Mycroft with his fingers, Mycroft became quite convinced he had been swept forwards to some perfect afterlife he did not deserve. This could only possibly be paradise. Greg watched him tenderly throughout, dextrously twisting his fingers each time they withdrew just to bring Mycroft pleasure - just to make him feel good. Mycroft had never been treated like this. Never. The fingers stirring inside him were perfectly gentle - they made him ache. Greg leant down to kiss him, supporting himself on his other hand; Mycroft felt his heart break apart.

He whimpered with desperation, opening his lips to the tender tongue that eased so lovingly between them. He pushed his shaking hands into Greg's hair. He felt like he was drowning in the perfection of it, the comfort, the slow stroking of his lover's lips over his own. He was unafraid to gasp out his faint sobs of pleasure. The whole world outside the edges of the bed had ceased to exist. There was only this - only Greg.

Mycroft's whole body seared with it.

Sex. Sex for the first time. Sex with the single sexiest man in London, the man everyone longed for, the man who was now laid between his thighs and gently, almost lovingly preparing him with his fingers.

_God, please. Don't let this be the only time._

He wouldn't let it be, Mycroft thought. He would never give this up. Three years, and it had been worth every second of the wait. Greg wasn't even inside him yet.

"Holy God," he breathed against Greg's lips, as a jolt of pleasure robbed him of his vision for a moment - he stretched, arching, his mouth opening wide. "Th- _There_ \- ..." he gasped.

Greg's fingers were brushing inside him somewhere that made him want to howl. He fisted tightly at the sheets and pushed his thighs wide, panting in despair, his chest rising and falling fast.

"Oh, God... there..."

Greg kissed him, deeply. Two fingers eased to three, fucking him slowly, stroking over and over at his prostate in rhythm. He wanted to weep. He wanted to die.

"Sweetheart…" Greg's voice was hoarse. "You ready?"

Mycroft gave a tortured nod, twisting at the sheets. He watched, his cheeks flushed, eyes molten in desperate arousal, as Greg slicked his own cock with a hand.

He then removed his fingers, gently, and eased between Mycroft's thighs. The head of his cock nudged at Mycroft's entrance.

"Yes - ..." Mycroft whimpered. _Ohfuckyes. Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease._

The first gentle nudge. Mycroft bit down hard into his lip, forcing himself to breathe - to relax - not through pain. Just to keep himself from coming. Wet with saliva and lube, slowly stretched and stroked for an eternity, more desperate to be fucked than he'd ever been in his life, he felt barely a flutter of discomfort as Greg's cock nuzzled its way slowly inside him. He panted, slow, his head fallen back against the pillows and his expression twisting with pleasure.

An hour ago, he thought, he'd been sitting here in pieces - too broken to cry.

Now he was here beneath Greg - reaching down to pull his hands beneath his own thighs, easing them further open, shuddering as Greg slid a little deeper inside him.

Grey eyes fogged with enjoyment, cheeks still blazing, forehead shining with sweat, Mycroft leant up in desperation and nuzzled for Greg's lips.

"Please," he whispered against them. His voice broke, tight with emotion. "Kiss me?"

Greg caught his mouth, shuddering. The kiss was slow and deep. As Mycroft felt both Greg's tongue and cock pushing slowly inside him at once, filling him, Greg's tender hands cradling his jaw, he felt like he could now die happier than any man ever had.

He moaned desperately into Greg's mouth as the first gentle thrusts began - shuddering, letting out a gasp that formed itself into Greg's name. He curled one hand at the back of Greg's neck, fingers shaking; the other he wrapped around Greg's lower back. His fingers dug gently into the muscles there. _Oh, holy God… so good. So good._

Mycroft was desperate to come. He knew this wouldn't take long. He didn't want it to. He'd been craving release since Greg first pushed open his thighs.

But there was just one last thing - one thing he wanted.

It took all his strength to flip Greg, but he managed it - pushing up beneath him in a surge, rolling him over onto his back and climbing atop him in desperation, straddling his hips. He took hold of Greg's cock and guided it slickly, eagerly, back inside his body - taking it, all of it, with a shudder and a hiss, grinding their hips slowly together.

He threw his head back - a flash of sweat-damp auburn in the darkness - and with his hands splayed on Greg's chest, slowly and a little roughly began to ride him, Greg's eyes burning as they watched him.

Mycroft's thighs trembled with each deep downward stroke. He gazed at the man laid beneath him - a modern Adonis, flushed, dark eyes big with desire, gorgeous against Mycroft's silk sheets as he was ridden.

"Fuck," Greg gasped out. "Fuck, _fuck…_ Myc - "

"Oh, God," Mycroft whispered, thickly. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. "We're - ... you're inside me..."

Greg's hands lifted to his hips, guiding him as he rocked back and forth on his swollen cock.

"Oh my God, Myc…" he moaned. "I can't… I can't last…"

Reaching up he grabbed for Mycroft's cock, stroking swiftly and firmly. Mycroft felt his inner muscles tighten hard as Greg began to stroke him. His expression twisted with desperate pleasure. He couldn't hold any longer. He couldn't wait. He'd not come with someone for three years - with someone who made him feel so good, even longer.

"Come for me, darling," Greg breathed. "Come with me..."

"F-F- _Fuck_..." Mycroft gasped. He began to slam down against Greg, hard, whimpering. Greg's cock was rubbing rhythmically at his prostate, the hand around him stroking in time. He couldn't wait.

He called out as he came across Greg's fingers - desperate, broken - a cry of pleasure wrenched from his lips into the safe quiet darkness of the night. His body squeezed Greg's prick hard as he came. He heard Greg shout, and then Greg was grabbing for him - pulling him closer as they shuddered together, gasping, wracked with joy.

When thought returned - flickering, hazy in the quiet - Mycroft found himself laying atop Greg's naked body. They were kissing.

He couldn't remember who had begun the kiss - whether, in the rush of Greg's climax, Mycroft had taken his face in his hands and covered his lover's lips with his own - or whether Greg had pulled him down.

It didn't matter.

A perfect, soul-deep peace flooded Mycroft's every vein, every nerve, every fragment of his being. He cradled Greg's jaw in his hands as they kissed, tongues stroking and comforting each other in the shock after the rush.

It was some time before their mouths came apart.

When they did, Mycroft gazed a little fearfully into Greg's eyes; he felt fifteen years younger. _Wow,_ he thought, his breath robbed for a moment by the sheer beauty of the man he'd just shared his being and his body with.

He tried a smile - a little shy.

It was a rare sight in this world. Few ever saw such a thing from Mycroft Holmes.

"I... hope that was... good for you," he whispered, gazing at Greg in wonder.

"Alright for me?" Greg whispered. His dark eyes lit from within. "Oh... Myc... you blew my mind…" He grinned softly. "Amongst other things."

Mycroft smiled widely against his stubble-kissed jaw; Greg gave a sigh, stretching.

"If only we'd stopped arguing long enough to see what was in front of us," he murmured.

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his neck.

"I'm sorry for the vicious things I've said," he whispered. "I - struggle to - ... it's been a while. A long while. I keep up a lot of defences... I'm - so sorry I was determined to see the worst in you. I was a fool."

"I'm so sorry I hurt you…" Greg murmured. "You are beautiful. Have you any idea? How the hell are you not locked away somewhere by a jealous husband?"

Mycroft's heart boomed with joy. He shivered softly as Greg's fingertips began to wander gently along his sides.

"Thank you, Mycroft…" Greg murmured. "That was - beautiful - can I kiss you again?"

Mycroft gazed into the deep brown eyes, drowning in the tenderness being whispered to him.

He leant forwards, pressing his lips gently to Greg's.

Everything went quiet; everything breathed out.

"Please do stay," Mycroft said, softly, when their lips had parted. "I... want to hold you. Sleep beside you. I hope that's alright."

"Of course… of course I'll stay with you tonight. Not sure I'd even get as far as the door, anyway…" Greg smiled, stirring a little against Mycroft's sheets. "Can I ask a favour?"

"Of course…"

"Will you have a bath with me before we sleep?" Greg smiled, gazing into Mycroft's eyes. "I'd love to think we're still both young enough to do this through the night, but... I'm not sure of my recovery rate these days… but… I'd love to hold you for a while. Wash you. Look after you before we sleep."

They made love in the bath - not sex - too tired for that, too blown away by the enormity of what had just taken place. But love was made nonetheless. Mycroft brought the bottle of brandy and lit the pillar candles in the window. He sat in Greg's lap and washed his hair for him, adoring him, watching the brown eyes close with enjoyment as warm water ran over his shoulders. For almost an hour, they talked quietly in the half-dark - small, soft things: old memories from childhood; the unworthy fools to whom they'd lost their virginities; favourite desserts; what films the Lestrades always watched every Christmas.

It was almost midnight as Mycroft set the alarms for the night. His home was a fortress; no place on the planet was safer. The two of them slipped beneath the sheets together, and Mycroft curled around Greg at once, cocooning him in warmth and affection.

"Goodnight sweetheart," Greg crooned to him. He began to stroke Mycroft's hair. "Thank you."

Greg fell to sleep first.

Mycroft held him for some time in the darkness, watching over him as he slept.

He shed a few silent tears into the pillowcase. Three years. Greg couldn't know the true enormity of the gift he'd just given. Mycroft comforted himself in the darkness with the feel of those bare shoulders under his hands - the scent of Greg's hair - the memory of his voice, whispering 'sweetheart'.

_My God,_ he thought. _This is it._

He questioned the thought at once - it was foolish, surely. One single night, not even a whole night, and thoughts like that popping into his head? It was madness. It was giddiness. It was lack of sleep - it had to be. The man in his arms was Greg Lestrade, whose keen ability to wind him up had - … well.

Proven that nobody on this planet affected him more.

And sex did not _normally_ feel like that.

The three-year drought aside, Mycroft remembered university well enough. He'd been a rather popular young man.

But nothing had ever felt like _that_ before. Everything from the casual Friday night shags to sex with long-term partners all paled into sudden, withering insignificance beside the feeling of Greg nuzzling slowly inside him - Greg leaning down to kiss him - Greg's voice murmuring, _come for me, darling._

This was big.

This was really, truly _big_.

Mycroft glanced down at Greg's face as he slept, studying his beautiful features. He wondered what exactly had just begun. He had the distinct feeling he was looking at the tiniest, most beautiful little fragment of something so vast he could not yet comprehend it - a single tile in a mosaic - something whose magnitude and wonder would only become apparent in the days and weeks and months to come.

For now, it made him feel alive.

He planted a silent kiss on Greg's forehead as he slept, closing his eyes.

"Mine," he whispered to the darkness.


	12. First Night: Greg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here follow the same events you have just read, but from Greg's POV. Enjoy - again. x

* * *

 

Greg tugged his fingers through his hair.  Thirty minutes, and still no reply.

_Fuck! - why can't life be easy?_

He read and re-read his email, seeing his clumsy attempts at communication for what they were. He'd always said what came into his head. It had mostly served him well, his honesty and forthrightness bringing him respect. But this… _Jesus_. After speaking with Mycroft for the last week, he was realising that Mycroft might be an arrogant son of a bitch on the outside, but like Sherlock there was something else - a sensitivity that Greg had now carelessly stamped on.

He'd seen so much domestic abuse, so many non-consensual acts that brought a fraught offender sitting before him in the incident room. He'd vowed he would never be handsy with anyone unless they expressed their desire with certainty.  When Mycroft had seemed surprised at his preferred sexuality, Greg had thought he would go running for the hills. Greg had written those words to reassure him. So many people thought that a queer bloke would chase anything male. It royally pissed him off, but he still sometimes felt the need to reassure. And now?

“Okay, sod it!” Greg reached for his phone and dialled Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed - like, really laughed. He asked why it had taken Greg this long to work out that Mycroft was gay. Greg found himself practically pleading with Sherlock for Mycroft’s address. He used the only ammunition he had - reminding Sherlock that when he'd been lying in vomit in the gutter, it was Greg who'd had got him home. He owed Greg.

Eventually Sherlock gave up the address - with a first warning that it hadn’t come from him, and a second that Mycroft would probably set the dogs on him.

Greg wasn’t sure whether these would be real or metaphorical dogs - but his guilt at such an awful insult to Mycroft gave him the strength to face what might come his way. He slipped on his coat and banged the door hard on his way out.

By eight o'clock, Greg stood outside the gates of an impressive Belgravia home. All within seemed dark - curtains drawn, no lights.

He noticed the console embedded into the stone gatepost, and hit call.

His heart beat heavily in his chest while he tried to formulate what he would say if he got past the gates.

After some time, the intercom crackled. An exhausted voice said, "Yes?"

Greg took a deep breath before he spoke.

"Mycroft Holmes! It's Greg Lestrade. I believe we have things to talk about."

He then moved slightly so he was obscured by the stone pillar. Unsure of Mycroft's reaction or the security features his home might have, he didn't want to be in firing range - just in case. He chided himself inwardly for his cowardice.

There was no response for a moment from the intercom. He readied his finger to press the call button again - then Mycroft said, numb,

"What do you want? I'm... busy, inspector." There was a pause. "How did you get my address?"

"Did you read my last email?"

Silence. Greg didn't know what to say to try and convince this man to open the door. In his time as a copper he'd met many individuals, listened to hours of taped interviews and had got a handle on a person's actions behind a voice. Mycroft was in no way busy working. He sounded like a piece of cracked glass, about to shatter at any moment.

"Mr Holmes, if you don't want to speak with me... at least please read that message." Greg rested one hand on the stone pillar, his legs shaking as he tried to keep his voice steady. "I'm such an arse."

There was another long pause.

Then a harsh buzzing noise announced to Greg that he was permitted to enter.

Greg made his way in silence up to the front door. It opened a moment before he reached it, and Mycroft appeared in the completely dark hallway. His expression was completely neutral, pale and tired. He looked shattered. He stepped back to let Greg inside, saying nothing.

The spacious hallway seemed to echo Greg's heartbeat.

"I am so sorry," Greg began. "Truly. I really didn't mean that the way it sounded. God, you must think I'm some sort of heartless bastard."

Doubt flickered across Mycroft's silent expression.

"Jesus, I... I would never say that. Well.... _mean_ that. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry for insulting you that way."

Greg realised, standing here, that above anything else he held dear was his compassion to others. Yes, he locked people up - questioned them hard. But never would he take an innocent heart and crush it. It was what he felt like he'd done to Mycroft.

The man's tired expression was like a knife twisting in his gut. He listened with reaction for a few moments, apparently taking Greg's words in.

At last he lowered his eyes, gave a silent sigh, and said,

"It's - quite alright, inspector. I am not offended."

"You god-damn liar," Greg said. His words came out in gasps, emotion cracking his voice. "Look, I work for the system. New Scotland Yard is a hard trough to wade through, but _you_? You work for God knows who, have all the shit in the world to deal with, and I made you feel like crap - and I'm sorry. Don't tell me it's okay. Don't tell me I didn't upset you. I was in the wrong and I'm trying to apologise."

Greg realising he was shaking with frustration. He was tired and fed up and angry at himself. Mycroft looked broken - the fact that he was the one to have broken him unsettled Greg greatly.

He watched the blue-grey eyes flicker with unease. Mycroft breathed in, steadying himself.

"I'm not - ..." Mycroft hesitated; this seemed to be difficult. "... - under any illusions as to my - desirability as a partner, inspector. Hardly something I claim to excel at. Hardly something I care about."

His expression shifted.

"Not all of us want legions of red-heads following us around."

Greg breathed deeply. "Can we sit down at least?"

Mycroft seemed too tired to refuse. He led the way to a plush sitting room. Greg breathed deeply as they walked, not knowing why this mattered so much to him. He was scrabbling to find the right words.

They sat down - Greg in an overstuffed armchair, Mycroft on the edge of the adjoining sofa. Mycroft seemed to be holding onto his facial expressions, trying to keep a modicum of control.

"Mr Holmes," Greg said, carefully. " _Mycroft_. It seems like we've been to hell and back this week. I haven't a clue why we seem to bring out this response in each other. But I'd rather not leave until we've made our peace."

Mycroft listened quietly, unreacting.

"I was actually looking forward to a drink tonight," Greg said. "Decent conversation - I might not look it, but I _can_ hold a conversation about something other than burgers and doughnuts. Then when you kept on about bloody women, I didn't know how to shut you up. You just seemed so shocked. I'm used to keeping things quiet. Everyone knows I was married, but... yeah I suppose I must give hits on some ' _gaydars_ ' out there... I know there's talk about me. I just panicked. I suppose worried you worried I was gonna hit on you! I was just saying, I don't do that... not unless I know it's wanted."

Mycroft looked down at his hands, giving a humourless smile as Greg finished.

At last, with a quiet flicker of his eyes into Greg's, he said,

"You are... kind to come to speak to me." He hesitated. "Kind to persevere. I was rather looking forward to a drink too. You're easy to converse with."

Greg found himself exhausted in the way of his tirade. The man in front of him was like someone he'd never been this close to, outside of official police soirees. His speech and mannerisms were cool and calculated, even though Greg knew he was hurting. He was - lovely.

Greg didn't know what to do. He'd said his bit, and now couldn't see his next move. _Should I just get up and walk out?_

Instead - going for humour, and praying it didn't miss the mark this time - he said, "So… what does a man need to do around here to get a drink?"

Mycroft gave a small laugh - tired, drained, but amused all the same.

"I haven't any beer, I'm afraid..." An idea seemed to occur. "I - have a French brandy I've been saving. I don't know if you even drink brandy, but... it's a rather special one, if you do."

He stood up carefully from the sofa, then realised Greg was still in his coat.

"Oh... here. If you're staying for a drink, let me take your coat..."

As Mycroft took his coat away into the hall, Greg let out a small sigh of relief. He slumped back down into the armchair.

For the first time, he glanced around at his surroundings. The traditional room was large but not as impersonal as Greg might have suspected. It was comfortable, but tidy - everything in its place. He could imagine Mycroft moving around this space, relaxing after a hard day's work.

He was pulled from his thoughts as a glass was held against his hand.

He looked up to see Mycroft watching him closely. Greg smiled.

Mycroft smiled, too. His eyes shimmered a little.

"I'll have someone take you home afterwards," the politician promised. He sat back down on the sofa, folding his long legs slowly beneath himself, and took a sip from his own glass. "I wouldn't want you to risk driving... not after French brandy."

Greg took a sip of the brandy, the warmth carrying over his tongue and into his throat.

"Oh - that's good… thank you. Better than beer."

Mycroft smiled slightly.

"So... what _is_ your type?" he inquired. His eyes were a little playful.

Greg decided he was ready. He wanted to get to know this man better.

"Well, I told you…" he said. "I like redheads. I like intelligence. I like someone who can stand up to me, but who doesn't take the piss… y'know?" He sipped at his brandy. "What about you?"

Mycroft smiled a little into his brandy glass. He seemed to take a moment to construct a suitably discreet answer.

"I meant what I said," he replied. "'Classic' types. Strong, and handsome, and brave... all shoulders and jaw. Men who smell of leather and cologne."

He hesitated, the playfulness still glittering in his eyes as he took another sip of brandy.

"Always had rather a weakness for straight-acting, if I'm honest... alas that the paperwork is miles away in my office."

As Mycroft spoke, Greg watched him with great interest. He felt the air grow perceptibly thick.

_Flirting?_ he thought. _Definitely. Interested? - absolutely! Sexy? - Jesus, yes..._

He shifted, hardening under the scrutiny of the gorgeous creature sat across from him. Maybe it was time to task a risk.

Taking a deep breath, he whispered, "Kiss me?"

For a moment, Mycroft seemed to think he'd misheard. He gazed at Greg from the sofa, completely reactionless, and the silence lengthened. Greg began to wonder if he'd made a mistake.

Then Mycroft looked down into his brandy glass. In a single motion he drank its contents. He put the glass aside, stood up from the sofa, and held Greg's gaze in his own as he approached the armchair.

Greg felt a rush of adrenaline. Mycroft's eyes seemed to smoulder; it ignited a response deep in his groin.

Then Mycroft was climbing into his lap, the loose linen of his trousers stirring across Greg's jeans. Greg's mouth went immediately dry. Mycroft settled astride him, quite calm, and placed his hands gently around Greg's jaw, gazing down into his eyes. There came a few moments of pounding silence.

Mycroft then lowered his lips - Greg saw him close his eyes. Greg closed his, too.

At the last moment, Mycroft stopped.

Those gorgeous lips hesitated, a single breath away.

"This will change things," Mycroft whispered. His fingertips trembled on Greg's jaw; Greg felt his skin alight with electricity, his heart stuttering as if was about to receive his greatest gift. "Irrevocably."

Greg lifted his head.

"Ohh, God..." he sighed against Mycroft's mouth.

He tasted delicious - brandy, mouthwash and softness. Greg allowed his tongue to move gently across his lips, then dipped into his warm mouth. Mycroft's tongue eased almost shyly to join his, and shaking in unity they explored each other. Greg's arms snaked around the lean torso of the man above him, pulling him in further, prompting a stifled soft moan of excitement. His soul soared, his cock twitching as he felt the hardness of Mycroft's erection pressing into his stomach.

"Oh," Mycroft whimpered against his lips, shaking. "Oh, _fuck_."

Greg's hands brushed down over his back, fingers trailing the cotton, enjoying the minute shivers that it caused under Mycroft's skin. He wanted more of that. As their lips parted, he lowered his head to trail kisses down Mycroft's chest, inhaling deeply, letting the scent of bergamot and brandy overwhelm his senses. Mycroft's head fell back, panting softly and shivering - God, he smelt delicious. Greg heard himself moan against Mycroft's chest, overcome with the desire just to sit back and admire the man's beauty - as well as the need to rip his shirt off, access his skin. Mycroft's fingers were quivering as they carded through his hair.

Greg realised he needed him - needed to be close. To own him. To have him. Discarding all his remaining reservations at once, he nipped gently at one erect nipple through Mycroft's shirt, earning himself a soft cry.

"Stay," Mycroft begged him. Greg took a deep breath, swallowing hard. "Stay the night..."

"Myc…" he murmured. Even as he drowned in the moment, he needed to be sure. "Mycroft, are you sure? You need to tell me what you want."

He pulled back to catch Mycroft's eyes - those gorgeous blue-grey eyes.

"I… I can't deal with _next morning regrets_. Please be sure..."

"I'm sure," Mycroft breathed. His eyes flickered shut and he kissed Greg deeply, his fingers seeking slowly down Greg's chest, skimming over buttons. Greg's heart twisted. "I want you," Mycroft whispered against his mouth. "I've wanted you for months... you're magnificent."

He audibly swallowed, shifting atop Greg to push closer to him, shuddering.

"I want to feel your body on top of me," he murmured, and Greg almost died on the spot. "I want to kiss you as you're inside me. I want to know what your voice sounds like as you come. I - don't want to sleep. Please. In the morning we'll talk. I just... need to... please..."

It was like a tap had been turned on. Greg had no hope of stopping his emotions now. This was happening. He reached for Mycroft's shirt buttons, swallowing.

"You are fucking lovely," he breathed. "How can you ever doubt that?"

Deftly he slipped the buttons free, pushing open the shirt as Mycroft panted and shut his eyes tight.

"Fuck," Greg whispered. "Sweet Jesus…" Mycroft had a smattering of auburn hair on his chest, now a little damp with sweat. Greg lowered his mouth, letting his tongue flick briefly over each nipple in turn. His cock turned to rock as Mycroft moaned.

At last, Mycroft stiffened and gasped.

"Greg - …" he whimpered. Greg felt his stomach clench. " _Bed._ "

Mycroft caught his hands, and pulled him willingly out of the armchair. Greg had never been so glad to follow someone up a set of stairs.

Mycroft's bedroom was shrouded in darkness. It was huge, dominated by a vast, silk-sheeted bed, which was illuminated by the flickering of a television screen set into the footboard. Mycroft had been in here this evening, Greg realised. The sheets were crumpled into disarray.

Mycroft led him in by the hand, guiding him backwards towards the bed.

"You don't know how many nights I've thought about this," Mycroft said. "About you."

He pushed Greg back onto the soft silk sheets, kneeling astride him at once and starting to undo the buttons of his shirt one-by-one. Greg felt a knot of tension untwist deep within his chest.

He knew it was ridiculous to be self-conscious - all the same, there was a moment he wondered how how he could physically compare to the gorgeous specimen now knelt astride his thighs, undoing his shirt. He gazed up at Mycroft, his breath coming hard and heavy.

"What do you want?” he asked, trying not to whimper. “Tell me what you want me to do for you."

Mycroft's cheeks had flushed with arousal.

"Just... be in my bed. Let me touch you," he breathed. He pulled open the final button of Greg's shirt and raked his hands immediately over his chest, coaxing forth a deep groan. "Oh, hell..." Mycroft gasped. "You are glorious - ..."

Greg's head swam as Mycroft leant down, nuzzling beneath his jaw - grazing restless kisses over his neck and shoulders. Oh fuck, this felt good. This was going to get crazy. Mycroft was reaching down between them for the fastening of Greg's jeans, deftly undoing the zip.

He pushed a hand at once inside - Greg's brain short-circuited.

"Oh God," Mycroft moaned - his hand curled around Greg's cock, squeezing him. "You're huge…"

Greg wondered if this was all a fucking dream. He didn't want to ever wake up. Mycroft's tongue laved across his throat as he stroked Greg's cock, rubbing the bunched cotton of his boxers up and down his hardened shaft.

"Ohhh - …" he groaned. "Been so long…"

He leant up for Mycroft, kissed him, caught his bottom lip between his teeth and pulled gently, revelling in the pornographic sound that ensued. As Mycroft stroked him, he unfastened the loose linen trousers, pushing and tugging at the fabric until he found what he wanted - Mycroft's cock was hard and perfect, thick with a large head.

"God," Greg breathed, wrapping it in his hands. Mycroft shuddered and pushed against him. "I need this…"

In response, Mycroft let out a weak gasp against Greg's neck. He freed Greg's cock from his boxers, stroking slowly for a minute in rhythm.

He then started kissing his way down Greg's torso.

Greg let his head fall back against the bed with a flump, swearing under his breath. Mycroft was nuzzling into his chest hair, breathing in his scent. _Jesus fucking yes._ As Mycroft took hold of his boxers and jeans, Greg lifted his hips to aid in their removal. They were cast away across the bedroom to God knows where.

Mycroft then settled between his knees, lowered his head, and gathered Greg's cock slowly into the wet warmth of his mouth.

Greg heard his own groan torn from his throat. He tangled his fingers into Mycroft's hair, shuddering as Myc laved his prick with his tongue, easing his cock deeper into his mouth, nose burrowing into the hair at the base of Greg's cock. Greg swore to himself, weak; it was all he could do not to force his cock down Mycroft's throat. His head spun wildly. Mycroft's splayed hands soothed either side of his hips, encouraging him to rock upwards into Myke's mouth - he did so, panting.

_Christ, Christ, Christ._

Had it always felt this good? Every time he'd ever fucked - ever made love even... he'd not come close to the sensations he was feeling right now. It _had_ been too long. And Jesus, Mycroft was magical at this. Within minutes Greg found his legs trembling, his thighs hard, muscles tensed. As Mycroft's tongue dipped and swiped across his balls, he had to bite down hard on his tongue to stop himself from squealing.

If he was to die soon, he thought, let it be now - with his heart thudding in his chest, and his cock buried in Mycroft's mouth.

He was within a whisper of coming when Mycroft gently drew back, lips sliding from around his pulsing cock. He pressed a kiss beneath Greg's navel, crawled back up the bed to him, and kissed him deeply - cupping Greg's face in his hands.

"Shhh..." he breathed against Greg's mouth. Greg fought to calm down, to stop his heart from thumping so loud. "Shhh... there's more. I'm not done with you."

Greg's chest tightened. Mycroft kissed him again, slowly, stroking him with that mouth he'd just been inside.

"God on high," Mycroft whispered. "You are... _so_ handsome... I would suck your cock all night if I could..."

Greg's heart skipped. No... nice as it was to be taken care of, he wanted Mycroft to beg for him - wanted him to feel the pleasure that had seemingly been lacking in his life for so long.

In one swoop he pushed Mycroft back onto the bed, chuckling as Mycroft gasped.

"Your turn, gorgeous," he whispered. "Here… let me..."

He pushed at Mycroft's legs, motioning for him to bend them up - which Mycroft did without pause. Greg then reached for a pillow.

"Up, " he murmured, tapping Mycroft's hips. He slid the pillow underneath.  

He lay down on his belly, his head as close to Mycroft as he could get - then, without a pause, and ignoring the cock laid hard and twitching against Mycroft's belly, he licked a thick strip right across Mycroft's balls. Mycroft let out a sound he would never forget. He nuzzled at Mycroft's balls - little kisses, gentle nips - and looked up to see Mycroft writhing on the bed.

"Myc, can I… lick you? Back here?" He flashed his thumb, wet with saliva, against Mycroft's entrance. Mycroft sputtered a broken sound that equated to yes; Greg wet his lips, nuzzled close, and went to work on his hole - licking gently at first, circular motions around the thick rim, pushing Mycroft's buttocks further apart to aid access. He played at the opening with his tongue - gentle bouts of pressure interspersed with long languid licks across the whole crack of his arse.

Long minutes went by. Mycroft had dissolved into whimpers at the first lick. He panted, grinding his head back into the pillows as Greg worked him, not stopping for more than a gasp for air. The silk sheets twisted beneath Mycroft as he writhed, thighs trembling either side of Greg's head - his cock untouched, lying against the sweat-sheened expanse of his belly. His whimpers wound tighter and tighter as Greg worked, rising into faint sobs and cries in the quiet darkness.

At last, as Greg realised he was drawing almost too close to stop, he withdrew gently, careful not to push Myc over into orgasm. He wanted this to last as long as possible - the most beautiful kind of torture.

"P-Please - ..." Mycroft reached for him, desperately drawing him closer - every muscle in his body seemed to be shaking. Greg saw him swallow, hard, as he lifted a trembling hand up to the nightstand and tugged open the drawer. "There's - lubricant," Mycroft managed. Greg's stomach swooped. "Small glass bottle. Please." Mycroft's pupils had swollen; his cheeks blazed with colour. "Greg, I... I need..." He bit his lower lip. "Have me," he breathed. "Pin me. Fuck me. Please."

Greg's heart swelled with a perfect blend of affection and lust. He reached into the drawer, grabbing the lube and a condom.

While rolling back he realised Mycroft was turning onto his front, pulling himself onto all fours.

"No," he soothed. "No, Myc... not like that. I wanna see you." He nudged Mycroft back over onto his back, kissing him, pushing his thighs gently apart. "I wanna see you when I fuck you," he whispered, causing a tight sound of excitement. "I wanna kiss you and worship you… please don't turn away from me."

With one hand he rolled the condom over his own erect cock, breathing hard.

"Okay, sweetheart…" he murmured. "Hold on for the ride of your life…"

He poured a more than generous amount of lube out onto his palm - more was more - and slicked his fingers with it, lowering his hand to Mycroft's perineum.

Slowly, he teased at Mycroft's hole - the sounds that came from Mycroft's mouth were soon driving him wild. He feared his heart would stop if he didn't get release soon, but he wanted this to be good - to be perfect for this man who had trusted him with so much.

Inch by inch he teased his finger into Mycroft, stopping momentarily to allow him to adjust to the intrusion. From the noises he was causing, Mycroft was more than desperate to continue. Greg began gently fucking him with a single finger, twisting slightly each time he withdrew to maximise the sensation. He leant forward, supporting himself with his other hand, and kissed Mycroft deeply.

Mycroft's hands pushed, shaking, into his hair. With each slow twist, he gasped out faint sobs of pleasure. "Holy God," he whimpered against Greg's lips. He stretched, arching, his mouth opening wide. "Th- _There_ \- ..." he gasped. He fisted tightly at the sheets and pushed his thighs wide, panting in despair, his chest rising and falling fast. "Oh, God... there..."

Greg shuddered, closing his eyes. His skin was on fire, hormones rushing through his body. He felt like crying, like singing, like loving. Slowly he increased one finger to two, and then three, all the while feeling Mycroft relax more and more into his touch - even as his muscles squeezed desperately at Greg's fingers.

"Sweetheart..." he whispered at last. "You ready?"

He knew Mycroft couldn't last much longer - he didn't want him to. He just wanted to watch him come.

At the tortured nod from Mycroft he slicked his cock, glad he'd already rolled the condom into place. He removed his fingers, and nudged his cock gently at Mycroft's hole.

"Yes - ..." Mycroft gasped. He bit down hard into his lip. "Greg - …"

The first gentle nudge. Greg took it slow - determined not to hurt, fighting not to come as Mycroft panted slowly beneath him, head fallen back into the pillows. His expression twisted with desperation as Greg's cock nuzzled inside his body. _Holy_ _hell_ , this was hot.

Mycroft reached down to pull his hands beneath his own thighs, easing them further open. He shuddered as Greg slid a little deeper inside him. The blue-grey eyes fogged with enjoyment, his cheeks blazing, as he leant up in desperation for Greg's lips.

"Please," he whispered against them. His voice broke, tight with emotion. "Kiss me?"

Greg shuddered to the soul. He caught Mycroft's mouth, gently opening his lips with his tongue - pushing slowly inside him, cock and tongue at once, cradling Mycroft's head as he made love to his beautiful mouth. He tasted of brandy. He was warm, slick and wet - he was beautiful. Greg's heart spiked with each beat in his chest.

As soon as he felt Mycroft exhale, he began to thrust in earnest - a rhythm that had only one beat. _Gonna come, gonna come, gonna come…_ Mycroft moaned desperately into his mouth, shuddering, letting out a sharp gasp that formed itself into Greg's name. Greg shivered and ran a hand down Myc's side to dig gently into his hips - fucking him slowly, deeply, listening to his desperate noises of pleasure. One of Myc's hands came to rest, shaking, on the back of Greg's neck. The other wrapped around his lower back.

It was perfect - fucking perfect.

Greg had just made up his mind to speed up, to pin Myc gently and rock him a little rough, when Mycroft pushed up beneath him with a sudden surge. Greg gasped as he was knocked over onto his back, climbed atop and straddled at once. Mycroft was shaking, flushed in the face. He gripped Greg's cock one-handed and guided it slickly back into his body - taking it, all of it, at once, with a shudder and a hiss. Myc swallowed, then began to grind their hips slowly together.

Greg's heart hammered in time with each slick, tight stroke. He watched, desperate, as Mycroft threw his head back - a flash of sweat-damp auburn in the darkness. Mycroft splayed his hands on Greg's chest, slowly and a little roughly riding him.

"Fuck," Greg gasped out. Mycroft's thighs trembled with each deep downward stroke. "Fuck, _fuck…_ Myc - …"

"Oh, God," Mycroft whispered thickly. This muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. "We're - … you're inside me…"

Greg gripped gently at his hips, guiding Mycroft's urgent rocking motions back and forth on his swollen cock.

"Oh my God, Myc…" he moaned. This was so hot - it felt so good - his heart was leaping with each thrust, Myc's body tight around him, wet with lube and saliva, liquid heat and perfect tightness. "I can't… I can't last…"

Reaching up he grabbed for Myc's cock, stroking swiftly and firmly.

"Come for me, darling," he breathed. "Come with me..."

Mycroft's muscles tightened as Greg began to stroke him. His expression twisted with desperate pleasure.

"F-F- _Fuck_..." he gasped. He began to slam down against Greg, hard, whimpering. Greg felt Myc's balls tense up, and then Mycroft was calling out as he came - desperate, broken, the cry of pleasure wrenched from his lips into the safe quiet darkness of the night. Greg felt his own orgasm breaking in the core of his very being as Myc's wetness spurted hot across his fingers, his cock pulsing in Greg's hand, his body squeezing Greg's prick hard in his climax. How could his day have come to this? Greg thought. Cock deep in the most beautiful man in the world - cherished, trusted. It was perfect. It was everything.

His breath stuttered as he came, pulse after pulse rushing from his body. He heard a shout and realised the noise was coming from deep within his own throat. He grabbed for Mycroft as their bodies shuddered together, gasping with it, blown away.

As the thundering stopped, Greg found they were kissing. Mycroft was cradling his jaw in his hands, tongues stroking and comforting each other through the aftershocks.

It was some time before their mouths came apart.

When they did, Mycroft gazed a little fearfully into Greg's eyes; he looked fifteen years younger as he tried a smile, almost shy.

"I... hope that was... good for you," he whispered, gazing at Greg in wonder.

Greg's heart beat hard.

"Alright for me?" he whispered. "Oh... Myc... you blew my mind…" He grinned softly. "Amongst other things."

He felt Mycroft smile against his jaw; he gave a sigh, stretching.

"If only we'd stopped arguing long enough to see what was in front of us," Greg murmured.

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his neck.

"I'm sorry for the vicious things I've said," he whispered. "I - struggle to - ... it's been a while. A long while. I keep up a lot of defences... I'm - so sorry I was determined to see the worst in you. I was a fool."

"I'm so sorry I hurt you…" Greg murmured. "You are beautiful. Have you any idea? How the hell are you not locked away somewhere by a jealous husband?"

His fingers stroked mindlessly along Mycroft's side, causing his lover to shiver softly. He'd never felt so calm following sex - he was drowning in oxytocin. It was like floating on a warm cloud of comfort and warmth.

"Thank you, Mycroft… that was - beautiful - can I kiss you again?"

In response, Mycroft leant forwards, pressing his lips gently to Greg's.

Everything went quiet; everything breathed out.

"Please do stay," Mycroft said, softly, when their lips came apart. "I... want to hold you. Sleep beside you. I hope that's alright."

"Of course… of course I'll stay with you tonight. Not sure I'd even get as far as the door, anyway…" Greg's muscles, unused to sudden intense exercise, were already starting to complain. "Can I ask a favour?"

"Of course…"

"Will you have a bath with me before we sleep?" Greg smiled, gazing into Myc's eyes. "I'd love to think we're still both young enough to do this through the night, but... I'm not sure of my recovery rate these days… but… I'd love to hold you for a while. Wash you. Look after you before we sleep."

It was over an hour - and another brandy - later that the two of them slipped beneath the sheets. Mycroft curled around Greg at once, cocooning him in warmth and affection.

"Goodnight sweetheart," Greg crooned. He stroked Mycroft's hair. "Thank you."


	13. Congratulations

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:06_

_Subject: Greg..._

 

Honesty, from now on.

No matter how much it may frighten me.

I shan't lie that I'm petrified as I type this. It has taken me some time to put together. But after last night, I think I owe you the utter truth.

Truth, and nothing less.

A practice round. Honestly: typing your Christian name made my heart skip a beat. It feels good even to put those four letters in a row, one after the other. It felt good to have the sound of your name in my mouth. And honestly, I have done barely a scrap of work all day.

Last night was... exquisite.

There aren't words enough. It was monumental. My mind is still reeling. In some ways we are still making love even now, as I play it in my mind over and over. Your touch. Your gentle words.

I was so sorry we had to part at some speed this morning - but then, I suppose neither of us were in a fit state last night to remember to set an alarm. I hope you made it to work on time.

I wanted to lay my feelings bare for you, like this - clear, and without any obscurity... in the hope they are returned. I think they are. How else could you kiss me like that as you left?

I warned you last night that this would change things - irrevocably.

I had no idea how much. I just hope that, in the aftermath, it is for you a good change... as it is for me.

I could quite possibly write for pages on this subject... perhaps time to form a conclusion, steel my courage and hit 'send'.

I liked spending time with you very much.

I would very much like it to happen again. I think I could make you happy - if you'll let me.

After last night it seems almost amusing to suggest we can take things slowly, but... I mean it. Please feel no pressure. I have no wish to trap you, or curb your freedom.

Just to see you - to spend time with you - to make love with you.

All else we can perhaps work out in time. Together.

Greg, I feel... new.

There.

The words are written.

Now the truly courageous part. 'Send'.

Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:20_

_Re: Greg…_

 

Dear Myc,

Is it OK for me to call you that by the way? I don’t think we got as far as name preferences last night.

This really has to be a short email. I am mixed up in an arson attack three family members gone. We're off to pick up the husband now. Bastard!

Look, I wanted to say… I read your email…. It lifted my spirits on this awful day… I will reply properly when I have finished with him.

Until then?

Sweet kisses.

Greg x

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:25_

_Subject: How are you?_

 

Good morning, little brother.

How are you? Have you slept a little better?

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:27_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Quite well thank you…

… and your other reason for emailing?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:28_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

You make me sound uncaring... genuinely I would like to know you are better.

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:30_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Unusual for you to request an update on my progress by email. Suggests you foresee the conversation diverging into a lengthier discussion that is held over some time.

With that in mind, dear brother, I am quite well...

… and now…

… how are you?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:41_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Hmm. Seems honesty is becoming a theme today…

I wanted to make you aware of a development. It's likely to affect you. And you were almost certain to figure it out anyway. It's quite a recent development.

Wholly positive. Nothing to be worried by.

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:45_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Ah! You fucked Greg!

Congratulations.

(Or whatever people say on these occasions.)

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:47_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Oh sweet God. I knew you would be like this.

How the hell did you find out?

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:49_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Oh please Mycroft. Been waiting for this for some time. No two people can possibly argue over absolutely NOTHING with such vehemence, without really being desperate to screw.

Did you succumb to his charms, or he to yours?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_ _  
_ Sent: 28 July 2017 13:52

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

We, ah… succumbed to each other.

Thank you for your excessive interest...

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:55_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Excessive support, too. Three years of you moping around and sulking is finally at an end.

I couldn't be happier. I must send a Greg a thank you note.

Does he know about Alton?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 13:59_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Oh God. I'd hardly thought about it.

No. He doesn't.

But I will be the one to tell him Sherlock, and when I am ready. If you breathe a word to him I will have you sent NHS. You will be eating inadequate food and riddled with a superbug before you know it.

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:01_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Come on Mycroft. Surely he's figured it out by now.

"Alton" "Beckett"?

_"Sourceofthestream"?_

He's meant to be a detective.

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:06_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

He has many qualities, little brother, and believe me I am very happy to forgive that etymology is not one of them. Not a word to him.

Do you understand? He needs to hear it from me.

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:14_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Tell him soon. Don't keep things.

I know you're very good at keeping things but it's not healthy in a fledgling relationship.

#thethingsyoulearnfromwaitingroommagazines

 

* * *

 

  _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
 _To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_  
 _Sent: 28 July 2017 14:15_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Oh God.

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:16_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Was that meant for me or for Lestrade?

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:19_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Oh God! You are intolerable.

PLEASE be discreet to Gregory. This is very new. I have no idea what it could become but I'm not willing to have it cut short by your interfering. Is that clear?

M.

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:26_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

 

Oh dear, I already emailed him...

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:27_

_Subject: Re: How are you?_

SHERLOCK!!!

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 14:22_

_Subject: Congratulations._

 

Greg, I understand that you and my brother have finally figured out that you're attracted to one another and advanced a vital step on from fighting. Not before time! It has been exhausting watching you bicker. Thank God you have finally progressed to sleeping together. (Is 'congratulations' standard? Mycroft didn't seem to think so.)

Thank you for tending to him. I can't be a hundred per cent certain exactly what you did, but he seems to be in a remarkably good mood.

So well done. Please continue doing it to him, whatever it was. The nation will be indebted to you.

May I tell John now?

Also thank you for the digestives.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Holmes Sherlock [ mail@thescienceofdeduction.com )_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 15:40_

_Subject: Re: Congratulations._

 

Sherlock,

You are an arse.

Seriously, might be hard for you to get your head round this but..... I like him... don't ruin it for me!

Something else? I am sure you know this already but Mycroft really cares for you! But... yeah... you do know it...

Tell John? Yeah sure, I might need a Holmes expert at some point..

I'm coming up to see you later, do you want anything bringing?

 

* * *

 

_From: Holmes Sherlock [mail@thescienceofdeduction.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 15:56_

_Subject: Re: Congratulations._

 

I have no intention of ruining a thing. On the contrary, this works rather delightfully in my favour. Mycroft will no longer spent 80% of his time looking like he's eating a salted lemon whole. There are many psychological benefits to regular sexual intercourse with a committed partner, all of which should increase his mood exponentially - thereby making my life much easier. (It is quite a fascinating topic. I'll forward you an article to read.)

Am I allowed cigarettes yet? Nicotine is a harsh mistress.

Please do not bring me any more of those inane sudoku books. The supposedly hardest one fell to me in a matter of minutes. It was quite disappointing.

 

* * *

 

_From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_To: Mycroft A. H. [ sourceofthestream@gmail.com ]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 16:34_

_Subject: Re: Greg..._

 

Dear Myc,

I have just read your email again. No one in your IT department reads yours do they?  I need to be careful what I send via _the office_ but here… well I can tell you exactly ….

When we met recently, I had heard a lot of stuff about you? Ya know you are quite infamous, like the bloody men in black!

I could immediately see that you have two sides. The care you have for Sherlock is.....  well he is lucky to have you.

When we argued. You made me so bloody mad. I realise now, that it’s because I wanted to impress you!

There haven’t been that many men, well not many relationships in my life really. I was with _her_ for a long time. I tried so bloody hard to make it work, give her what she wanted.  When I finally got out of the situation I was so grateful to be free. Not having to worry about spending two minutes extra at work because of the unfounded accusations.

Jesus Myc, she accused me of shagging Sal, since the moment she came to work with us! I didn’t dare let them in the room together as Sal would have shredded her.

The sex, yeah Jesus I missed it. Ya’ know there is only so much DIY a man can take. There has been causal sex.  Jesus. I even... Well let's just say I got involved in some strange sexual practices even recently? Ever heard of cyber-sex Myc?  It's been a really dry spell for me.

With you last night? I don’t know what the hell happened. But please never doubt that what you felt wasn’t exactly how I felt too.  To be held in your arms, to feel so cherished, - your kisses, oh God you are an amazing kisser. Just that alone blew my mind.  The rest? If you never wanted to do that again? I would die happy, knowing that I would never have better.

When I think about you., about we did? I get hard! Jesus, I haven’t been like this since I was 17.  You are a phenomenal lover…. That’s what it was to me Myc, not just sex…. You made love to me last night.

I know you have a busy life, mine is hectic enough, but - Jeez…. I can’t imagine the stress you are under with your _job? life_? I don’t even know what to call it but If you would like to work out a way you can spend time with me? Not just sex, but, ‘ya know being with each other? Then yes please! I so want to learn more about you, not this fake Mycroft everyone hears about, but the beautiful man I glimpsed last night.

Once I have finished up here tonight I am free. I doubt you will be able to get away, because of all the time you have had away recently.

I’ll call in to see Sherlock, then if you want to call me in between saving the world. I will make sure I am at your beck and call.

Yours, (I mean that!)

Greg x (Fuck! those kisses - I will dream about those kisses for years to come)

 

* * *

 

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_   
_To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_   
_Sent: 28 July 2017 17:02_

_Subject: Re: Greg..._

 

Dear Greg,

I'm not sure I've ever sighed over the contents of an email before... in frustration, perhaps. But not in joy.

You are sweet to care for my privacy - luckily our IT people know better than to monitor my communications. The resulting jail time wouldn't be worth the shreds of gossip they might unearth. We can talk safely.

I'm familiar with the practice of cyber sex... familiar, too, with the miseries of the dry spell.

Now broken.

Rather spectacularly.

Greg... I can barely concentrate at all today.

Sadly I have a long-scheduled meeting I must attend this evening... my absence would be noted and widely speculated upon. I hope to have made my escape by around nine PM. Will you have left Sherlock by then?

(who I understand has emailed you... I am deeply sorry if he has been flippant.)

Perhaps you could call me, when you're home...?

It would be nice to hear your voice... I heard some rather wonderful things spoken in it last night. I'm rather craving to hear more.

Yours,

'Myc'... x


	14. Dettonation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second night and fate was sealed, these two men had fallen in lust and maybe a little something more...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for those who are no longer in Tumblr, Private Message is being resurrected.  
> The new Mycroft will remain anonymous as explained on Tumblr, Their thing is first and foremost no smut Johnlock, and Mystrade is in their words' a dirty little secret', as she has a very established no smut following it makes sense to keep Anon,   
>  at present I am just bringing over existing chapters from Tumblr, and after our life and work commitments give us space, we shall start to write together on a semi-regular basis. 
> 
> Please subscribe for all updates, as I know that so many are no longer on Tumblr. This will ONLY be on here from when the new writing begins.
> 
> Apologies for any initial typos whilst trying to get this over from Tumblr as soon as possible.
> 
>  
> 
> *******************************************************

 

 

Mycroft had never been so strong willing a meeting to end before in his life. He spent the last half an hour quietly rereading the same email on his phone, paying only civil attention to the discussion at hand. The meeting eventually ran over by ten minutes; he resented every one of them.

 

He finally let himself in through his front door not long after nine, closing it behind him with a slam and entering the keycode to set security systems in place for the night.

 

He resisted very strongly the urge to sit down at the bottom of the stairs, still in his coat, and call Greg.

 

Instead, he forced himself to get changed, to make a coffee, then sit down in the lounge - in last night’s armchair. There was still an empty brandy glass on the coffee table.

 

He’d replayed last night’s events in his mind all day.

 

Their first kiss had been in this chair. Greg’s lips, brushing softly over his chest - mouthing at his nipples. Holy God. And the rest - bed - making love in the dark. Greg soothing him, calling him ‘sweetheart’. Had it really happened? Or had it all been a dream? Their bath together, afterwards - a pillar candle on the windowsill, washing each other gently in the candlelight, kissing, every inch of his skin still tingling from their lovemaking.

 

Mycroft felt dizzy. He felt wild and soft and weak, all at once. He felt like he was seventeen again, falling for someone for the first time - like he’d never been hurt before.

 

He scrolled through his contact list, heart beating a little hard, and rested his head back against the armchair as he hit the call button.

 

The phone trilled quietly in his ear, waiting to be picked up.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes as it rang, holding his breath.

 

At last, it answered - and the voice he’d wanted to hear all day answered.

 

“Hey, Myc…” Greg murmured.

 

Mycroft found himself smiling at once, his heart expanding with relief. “Hello…” He curled his feet up into the chair beneath him. “I’m… not disturbing you, am I?”

 

“Noooo,” Greg sighed. “I’ve threatened the Yard not to call me unless it’s a state of emergency. I’m so glad you called. I really didn’t want to leave this morning.”

 

Mycroft bit his lip a little, looking up at the ceiling.

 

“Yes, I… had a feeling you were reluctant to go. It was difficult to see you leave.”

 

“Your home’s like a luxury hotel, Myc… but I’d have been as reluctant to leave if we’d spent the night in the shed.”

 

Mycroft’s laugh was a rare sound, even in the comfort of his own home.

 

“Greg,” he murmured, overwhelmed for a moment. “It’s… good to hear you say that. I didn’t think there would be - regrets. I’m glad, all the same…” He hesitated, eyes wandering the ceiling. “Last night was rather meaningful for me.”

 

“Yeah, it's… special for me too. I was a bit worried on my way to you last night… I didn’t - … I’ve never done anything like that before.”

 

“You should know I’m not usually… so quick too - …” Mycroft closed his eyes, relaxing into honesty with conscious effort. “I don’t leap into bed with people at the drop of a hat, is what I’m trying to say… quite the opposite. I wouldn’t want you to think that was usual for me. But then, we’ve known each other for some time…  and… frankly, I couldn’t have stopped myself last night. You are desperately appealing.”

 

“It’s tough,” Greg said. “Working in a place where so many people would love to see us fall.”

 

There was a comfortable quiet for a moment.

 

“Never thought I’d find anyone who’d want to make me feel special. And as for appealing, Myc… have you any idea how gorgeous you are?”

 

Mycroft almost scoffed - almost. Self-deprecation was so ingrained by now. Years of it, years and years, backed up by years of evidence that nobody was interested in getting close to him.

 

Instead, he forced himself to hear it - to trust. He might not feel it. But he could trust that Greg meant it.

 

He smiled, feeling his heart tighten a little. “You’re sweet,” he said at last, quiet.

 

“I… wish you were here with me tonight,” Greg said.

 

Mycroft ran a weak hand back over his forehead. This felt… huge. Beyond huge. What the hell had they discovered?

 

“I rather wish that too,” he murmured. The thought of it - another night - lying Greg down in another bed, against another set of pillows, sharing their mouths and their bodies… he ached with it a little. “Dear Lord,” he muttered. “I… feel like a teenager again.”

 

“When?” said Greg.

 

Mycroft paused. “When?”

 

“When…? When do you think we can meet again?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Half past nine. Surely… not tonight. Surely, he thought, he was meant to play hard to get at this point. He was meant to keep a little back - a little mystery.

 

Then he considered the thought that one hour from now, Greg Lestrade could be between his thighs, filling him with the perfect white pleasure he’d felt last night.

 

“You’re - certain you’re not busy?” Mycroft said. He was, in fact, asking a different question.

 

“Now?” Greg said. “No… not busy.” He paused. “I’m all yours.”

 

Mycroft bit the tip of his tongue. “Would you… like to be here?” he said. “In my luxury hotel? Or I could come to you.” He hoped he wasn’t being too needy. “This is… only if you’re free, of course.”

 

Greg seemed to pause. “Really?” he said. “You’d be with me again? Tonight?”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, taking his heart and throwing it through this opening door. God help me, he thought. Don’t let this go wrong.

 

“If you’ll have me,” he said.

 

“I'll… need to shave and shower first though I look like a hobo.”

 

“Come here,” Mycroft said. “You can have a shower… shave… I doubt very much you look like a ‘hobo’, but you can get comfortable.” He smiled a little. “So long as we set an alarm for tomorrow morning, we should be fine…”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Mycroft wet his dry lips with a flick of his tongue, hearing the pause all too loudly.

 

“Please,” he said, quietly. “I’ve - had a long day. I imagine you have, too. We can relax each other.”

 

“Myc, I… can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. But honestly, I’m a bit scared. I’m - just a fucking copper.” Greg’s breath hitched. “You’ll tire of me when you realise I’m not good enough.”

 

Mycroft’s heart contracted hard in his chest; his blood ran briefly cold. “Greg…” he whispered. “Last night was - … you can’t possibly imagine what - …”

 

He drew in a long breath, realising what was needed.

 

“Twenty minutes,” he said. “If you wish to make this easy for me, unlock your door. If not, I shall improvise.”

 

He hung up, called his driver, and within five minutes was leaving the house at speed, a swiftly-packed overnight bag slung over one shoulder.

Greg held his phone in his hand. He felt suddenly dizzy and realised he was still holding his breath.

 

Shit. Mycroft was coming here. Oh, God!

 

He leapt from the sofa and rushed to the bedroom, tearing off the cheap sheets that were overdue a change. Within minutes he’d pulled on new sheets and pushing the dirty ones to the back of his wardrobe, along with a week of dirty laundry.

 

He needed a shower - desperately so. He ran for the bathroom undressing en route - then, on second thoughts, ran back to the front door, unlocked it and left it on the latch.

 

He ran his eyes with despair over his scruffy lounge as he passed. Nothing to be done now, he thought.

 

He hurried into the shower, trying to quell his excitement.

 

*********

The messy flat was rather charming, Mycroft thought, as he moved silently through it. He could hear the rush of water in the pipes - Greg was in the shower. He paused in the doorway to the bedroom, amused by the sight of freshly-changed sheets and the wardrobe door open half-an-inch.

 

He placed his overnight bag at the foot of the bed - the brandy bottle within it clinked gently against his toiletries.

 

He then began undoing buttons on his shirt.

 

As he slipped silently through the bathroom door, stripped to his bare skin, his heart-rate picked up at the sight of that wet, lightly-muscled back facing the door. Greg hadn’t realised he was here.

 

He didn’t realise until the arms slid slowly around his waist from behind, Mycroft stepping gently into the wet warmth of his body. A splayed hand soothed across Greg’s stomach; the tender mouth went at once to his neck.

 

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft whispered, between kisses, “ask Sherlock if I have ever tired of something I have set my heart and mind upon… I’d say e-mail him tonight, but… you are going to be busy.”

 

*********************

_Three in the morning._

 

Dream and reality were molten together, blurred in the darkness. Slow hands were grazing down Mycroft’s sides - hands that wanted him, longed for him, and that part was surely a dream.

 

Then came the hopeful stroke of a warm mouth at his neck. As he breathed in, the scent of sex and cologne and someone else’s bed-sheets overwhelmed him. It’s real, Mycroft thought. It’s all real.

 

As he realised Mycroft was awake, Greg breathed a soft moan against his neck. He stirred against Mycroft’s bare back; his hard prick nuzzled insistently at the cleft of Mycroft’s arse. Desire burned through Mycroft in an instance. He swallowed, shivering, and stretched out onto his front.

 

In two nights, he’d lost twenty years.

 

Now all he wanted was to fuck. Greg caused emotions to rise in him, that he’d forgotten he’d ever known - things that had been gone forever - primal things. Pagan things. The first lungful of the man’s scent, the first rumble of his voice, the first stroke of his stubble, and Mycroft didn’t care about anything else in the world. He just wanted to get their skin together - closer than skin - closer, closer, closer.

 

As Greg pushed his thighs apart, Mycroft let go of all dignity. He moaned into the pillow that he fucking wanted it. Firm fingers sought across his entrance, dissolving him into shudders - he was still wet and open from earlier, still so fucking horny he could scream, but Greg reached for lube all the same. As steady fingers fucked him, as Greg kissed and bit at his shoulder, Mycroft begged. He didn’t care what came from his mouth any longer. He just wanted Greg inside him, and he wanted it now. He ground his cock against the mattress, desperate for friction - but Greg took his time.

 

At last, as Mycroft got what he wanted, his fists formed claws within the pillows. He shook, trembling, his whole body burning up as Greg filled him - just fucking filled him - began to thrust almost at once, too slow, too gentle and Mycroft needed more, but it was too good to change. Control had gone. All of it was gone. Politics, power. All of it. Gone. He let it go.

 

He arched back his head and panted, listening mortified to the stream of filth and fragility that was pouring out of his own mouth - begging Greg to do things to him that weren’t even physically possible - telling him he felt so big, so good - pleading for Greg to go out to dinner with him. Tonight. Anywhere. He didn’t care. As Greg began to fuck him deeper, harder, just a little faster, he called out in despair and begged him not to stop.

 

Greg didn’t stop.

 

Mycroft came like someone had packed his soul with semtex and detonated it.

 

_Half past three._

 

He laid on Greg’s bare chest and kissed him until his tongue ached. His lover’s hands massaged slowly up and down his back as they kissed. Each kneaded knot felt like a softer, smaller climax - a rush of pleasure, a release - Mycroft’s bones were melting to nothing now.

 

“Dinner?” Greg breathed, as their exhausted mouths parted.

 

Mycroft groaned softly.

 

“Please,” he breathed.

 

He didn’t care where. He just needed to be seen with Greg Lestrade. He wanted people to see the way they looked at each other, hear the way they spoke - the way their bodies spoke.

 

He needed to walk into a restaurant with the man and see heads turn their way, eyes widening.

 

He would have to resist the urge to grab hold of other diners and say to them, look. Just look at him. I get to watch him come. I get to watch him sleep. See what a lucky son-of-a-bitch I am. Now stop looking at him, or I’ll have your eyes.

 

“Tonight?” Greg murmured, nuzzling into his hair. Mycroft felt his heart expand with joy, breathing it into his soul.

 

“Tonight,” he whispered. “We’ll get to know each other. Properly.”

 

“Alright…” Greg kissed his forehead, softly. “We should… get some sleep. Work in a few hours.”


	15. Goodbye Cyber Lovers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to call it a close on anonymous friendships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short upload from Tumblr...

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

 

From: Alton Beckett

To: Dick Tracy

 

Dear Dick,

 

I’m sorry to reappear out of the blue… in truth, I’ve started and restarted this message to you three times now - uncertain what it is I’m here to say. I think I have it now. Forgive me if any of this is strange. I’ve recently discovered the joys of honesty… and, having thought about it, I think I owe you some of them.

 

After all, you were my favourite reader… at a time that I wasn’t much of a favourite to anybody. Your messages have always been a great comfort to me. I hope my work has been a comfort to you, too.

 

And for all that, I’d like to say thank you. If you read no more of this message, so be it.

 

I have a gift for you… it’s quite special. I’ve had a number of my stories printed and bound for you in a book - unique in the world. I wouldn’t dream of invading your privacy any more than I have by asking for a postal address. You once told me you had a London accent… I assume you have at least some ties to the city.

 

If you would like your book, I’ll leave it at The Dorchester for you to collect.

 

Just give your name to the front desk and they will have it for you.

 

I won’t check to see if you have collected it. There is no obligation for you to do so… just a gift from one person to another.

 

In truth, Dick, I think I have met someone… in the very fullest sense. In fact I met him some time ago, but I’ve recently realised he means a great deal more to me than I let myself acknowledge. He seems to reciprocate my feelings - considerable feelings… it is all very early, but… if it isn’t yet love, I think it could perhaps end up that way. He is very special. He makes me feel very special, too. It would be deceitful of me to move into a relationship with him, whilst still trading messages with you… I hope you understand.

 

Please, if nothing else, take this as proof of how I felt for you, even though we’d never met. You were a shelter when I had none other. For that I will always be grateful.

 

But I have to give this the best possible chance.

 

I might still write fiction. For all I’ve heard, I am good at it - and I would like to continue. His wishes will come first.

 

But if I do still write, I can’t pursue with my readers the sort of… closeness, that you and I had.

 

For what it’s worth, Dick, I am sorry I inveigled you into cyber sex… I feel it was exploitative of me to use you that way.

 

You deserve someone who treats you as more than a shelter, a comfort. I truly mean that. I am sorry I used you in that fashion.

 

So please - enjoy the book, if you want it. Perhaps you might even think of me from time to time.

 

I am very grateful for all that you gave me.

 

And I wish you all the happiness that life can bring.

 

With warm regards - and always, kind wishes,

Alton Beckett.

 

*******************************

 

 

**PRIVATE MESSAGE**

**From** : Dick Tracy  
 **To** : Alton Beckett

Dear Alton,

The world works in mysterious way it seems.

On my way to work this morning, I was trying to work out a message to send you.

You have been so good for me, you have really filled an empty part of my life when I have been desperately lonely.

Maybe this is some sort of Karma? that we have both met someone we want to make good with?

I too am so happy right now I could burst.

Thank you, really thank you…. the cybersex? well, shall we forget that…. it was necessary for us both in the heat of the moment?

Ya know. I do actually live in London... I will collect your gift. It shall remind me of a time where I needed a push to look for someone in real life. I think you helped me do that.

Yours respectfully,

Dick Tracey.


	16. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Greg is stood up, his old demons come back to haunt him, and well frankly, he is an unholy mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet more Archival chapters from Tumblr... Anyone getting excited yet that we will see some new stuff at the end of the month???
> 
>  
> 
> *****

The more Greg tried to concentrate on his paperwork, the more his eyes wandered.

 

Just a few days ago, he’d been having cyber-sex with an author of smutty books. Now he was - … well, he’d fallen head over heels with the most gorgeous man.

 

Saying goodbye this morning had been hard. They’d made love so leisurely. Greg couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed and yet so turned on at the same time. The way Mycroft’s hands moved over his back, it felt like… Jesus, that touch should be illegal.

 

Sal had noticed immediately of course. Not the who, but the what - no one else would have gotten away with asking him about new ‘just been shagged look’. Cheeky cow…

 

As he glanced at his reflection in the monitor, he could see what she meant though. He looked… well, he looked years younger. The last few days had literally knocked years from him. If they could bottle this magical ingredient, they’d be rich.

 

He couldn’t wait to see Mycroft that evening. He’d had no texts or emails, so Greg knew he was busy. He let his mind wander over all the ways he just might de-stress the gorgeous man.

 

He brought his mind back to the present as he realised that shortly he’d be as hard as ever, and in his suit trousers, nothing would be hidden. Instead, he tried to think about the drunks they’d brought in this morning after they’d tried to kill each other. Both had been lice-ridden; two officers had to be sent for medicinal showers to rid them of contamination. The stink had been awful. 

 

Yeah – that had done the trick. Even Greg’s cock couldn’t cope with those thoughts.

Now he just had to keep his mind off Mycroft for the next couple of hours, until he could get home and shower.  It was going to be a lovely evening. Dinner, good wine, and mind-blowing sex…

**…**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO MYCROFT HOLMES 20:00**

**Hi Myc, How you doing? I know you were busy today, it seems you have been held up…**

**Would it be easier for me to come over to yours rather than you send your driver? Greg xx**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO MYCROFT HOLMES 21:00**

**Hi Sexy, All Ok? It’s not like you not to leave word if you are busy… Let me know yeah? Greg xx**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO MYCROFT HOLMES 21:15**

**Really worrying me now Myc. Haven't heard from you all day and you said a driver would be here over an hour ago. If you want to cancel, just get word to me.**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO MYCROFT HOLMES 21:16**

**FFS Myc, you really know how to worry a man I can’t believe you would stand me up unless there’s a reason. Am gonna try and get hold of Sherlock…**

**Please be Ok… Greg xx**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO JOHN WATSON 21:17**

**Hey John, I can’t get hold of you and don't wanna worry Sherlock, but do you know if Mycroft’s ok? An hour late for a date and heard nothing from him? GL**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO JOHN WATSON 21:22**

**Hey Greg, I’m still at the clinic with Sherlock. He did an eye roll. Said to stop worrying. Mycroft will be fine. He said if something had happened they would have contacted him - John**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO MYCROFT HOLMES 21:30**

**Myc,  Sherlock and John said you are fine, so you must be busy at work? Jeez, you could have let me know. I’m sounding like a desperate 17yr old. Try and ring me when you get a minute yeah?**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO MYCROFT HOLMES 22:00**

**Just ring me will you? Been over two hours since we should have met. I gather the date is off, but would still like an explanation – Greg**

******

_How can it all have gone to shit again?_

_When Mycroft’s driver hadn’t turned up on time, Greg had been disappointed. Anxious as he was to see Myc again, he knew the other man was sometimes was held up in meetings. After an hour, he’d become frantic. What if he’d gotten hurt, fucking assassinated or something?_

_When John reassured him that Mycroft couldn’t be hurt, Greg’s mind automatically went into freefall._

_“Why, why…why?”_

_It had been so good - so fucking good. This morning they hadn’t wanted to part. He was sure that Mycroft had felt the same. He thought back again over the last few days - they’d shared secrets, told each other things. Greg knew that Mycroft hadn’t disclosed some of these things to others, so why had he blown him out now?_

_Greg’s heart felt heavy. When was this pain going to end? He’d felt so at peace, so cherished, so safe as Mycroft’s fingers had played over his skin. He’d been breathless with want and desire - had wanted Mycroft to feel like he felt. Where had he gone wrong? Why didn’t Mycroft have the guts to tell him?_

_Oh, Jesus. Surely, there must be something. Please let there be something…_

**From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]**

**To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]**

**Sent: 30 July 2017 02:00**

**Subject: what did I do?**

**Mycorft. Wha did I do to make you un ahappy?**

**Im sorry ok? What ever you want I will try and give it to you. I thought we had somwthinh specoal …**

**Og god I’m pissed.. no wonder you don’t me wanted.**

**Greg**

**EMAIL**

**From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]**

**To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]**

**Sent: 30 July 2017 02:28**

**Subject: Fw: what did I do?**

**Please just massege me? Please……….**

**Greg xxxxx**

**From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]**

**To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]**

**Sent: 30 July 2017 03:12**

**Subject: FW: what did I do?**

**Why are you doing this? Fuck…. Fuck… you are an arse! Why did I have to fall for another arse?**

**Greg**

When Greg woke up, his mouth tasted and felt like he’d consumed a bird’s nest.

 

The pain as the needles entered his brain made him wince, the stench surrounding him made him heave. _What the hell?_ Greg looked down, realising he’d upturned a glass over himself at some point. Mycroft’s empty brandy bottle was smashed by the sofa where it had fallen in the night. Ah, Christ. He’d been sick…

 

Then, with a flash, the intense pain of reality shot through the whole of his body.

 

_“No… no, no-no-no… no…"_

 

Greg sobbed into the cushion, not caring that it was full of stale brandy and vomit. He felt like he was dying, his breaking heart straining to stop and leave his wrecked body.

 

After what seemed like an hour, he pushed himself up to sitting. His head felt like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. He looked at the clock on the wall, willing it to come into focus.

 

Tick… tick… tick… eventually, 9 am swam into view.

 

_What the hell’s that noise?_

 

Greg groaned as he realised that his phone alarm was going off somewhere. He dug around under the cushions until the offending object had been retrieved, then hit the stop message.

 

He called Sally.

 

“Sal, you in work? Yeah… I do sound like shit… been up vomiting all night… I have a bug or something… No, don’t drop by. Wouldn’t do for you to catch it. I’ll ring when I’m able…”

 

After reassurances from Sal that she’d keep everything running smoothly and best wishes for him to get well soon, Greg looked at the phone.

 

Nothing… nothing from Myc…

 

Greg scrolled back through the messages he’d sent. No replies. He flicked open his Gmail, wincing at his drunken messages - but no reply there either. He sat back down, stunned.

 

Nothing made sense.

 

He knew that Mycroft was okay… otherwise, Sherlock would have told him. He remembered Sherlock’s words that Mycroft was fine. It could only mean that Myc had stood him up, and was now avoiding him…

 

Well, stuff that!

 

He’d done it once… he would do it again. He’d go and see Myc. He grabbed his coat, then realised that turning up covered in alcohol and vomit wouldn’t be wise. He made a beeline for the bathroom, glad at last he had a plan.

 

The taxi pulled outside Mycroft’s Belgravia home. Distracted, Greg threw a fistful of notes at the cabbie, who drove away before Greg could realise just how generous he had been.

Greg looked through the gates through which he’d passed only twenty-four hours early. The house seemed quiet; the curtains were drawn.

He stormed over to the stone pillar, smacking the call button hard.

“Come on, you arse… answer me… come on…"

Time and again, Greg crushed the intercom button - but no one answered. No curtains twitched. There was no movement anywhere on the property.

The bastard’s gone out. He knew I’d call so he’s gone.

Greg rooted to the spot as defeat overwhelmed him. He’d allowed his hopes to be inflated once more, only to have the plug wrenched out once again… he was angry. He was exhausted. He was a mess. Tears ran down his face unchecked.

After several minutes Greg kicked at the gate. Furiously he kicked, over and over, until he was sure he’d broken his toe - then kicked it once more.

“You bastard!” He shouted loud enough for anyone and everyone to hear - then, turning on his heels, he hobbled toward Hyde Park Corner to catch the tube home.

 

When Greg reached his home, he was hardly aware of the sudden downpour that had reduces his clothing to a sodden mass. Letting himself in through the door, he looked around and sighed - his entire heart hurt. He couldn’t bear it.

He went over to the sofa and winced at the mess. Jesus. Two nights of mind-blowing shagging, and he’d been reduced to a quivering hormonal mess.

Angrily he grabbed the cushions, divested them of their filthy covers and grabbed his dirty clothes, tossing the lot into the washer on a hot wash.

How does anyone have the right to do that to someone?

Surely…

But what if something had happened? 

He reached for his phone to text John again.

**TEXT MESSAGE TO JOHN WATSON 09:15**

**John, I know you said Mycroft was fine, but where the hell is he? He’s avoiding me… please let me know if you know anything**

**TEXT MESSAGE TO GREG LESTRADE 09:20**

**Hi Greg, Sherlock had a crap night last night His headaches were terrible so I can’t ask him again but he was adamant yesterday that this is Mycroft’s way and all will be fine with him. Sorry, can’t be of more help mate. He’ll turn up yeah? John**

So, it wasn’t uncommon for Mycroft to disappear…

Yeah right… Greg had been certain that he’d meant something to the man. He’d seemed so – believable. The proof was there, though. They’d both gone to work, and now nothing - no text - no e-mail - no call - nothing. Mycroft would have gotten word to him if he’d wanted to. It seemed sometimes like he could do anything he wanted to… including riding roughshod over a man’s feelings.

Why, why, why? What could have happened?

He hadn’t tried to contact Mycroft all day - no texts or emails - but then, what was the point? Unless Mycroft had taken that as another slight? They’d danced from one drama to another, Greg thought, misunderstanding each other at every opportunity. But this? How could this ever be a misunderstanding? Thirty-two hours late for a date? No phone call, no e-mail, no text.

He’d been dumped.

Not even a ‘Dear John’ letter to show for it.

Greg lay down on the sofa, broken. He tried to defiantly project hate towards Mycroft, wherever the hell he was - but instead, he found his own eyes filling. Tears burned over his cheeks as he realised, heart aching, just how much he was missing Myc already.

 

Over the following days, Greg went back to work. Sally left him largely to his paperwork - she seemed to know something was wrong.

He found himself running constant surveillance of the memories of the past week, played out like a worn video. Then he started looking further back - examining his childhood, his teenage years, his marriage. Even when they’d met, when he’d fallen in love with the woman, there’d been something missing. Yeah, he had plenty of orgasms - that was a biologically male thing - but the love was never quite complete. She must have felt it too. She’d started cheating on him less than a year later, after all.

When Greg looked back, he couldn’t help but sigh at his own naivety. He’d just wanted to make her happy.  He’d become a copper all those years ago because he wanted to make people happy - make them feel safe, feel like they’d be alright.

It was why he’d loved being a dad.

While Cindy was always off rendezvousing with one lover or the next, Greg had been there at home with Jake - he’d liked it that way. Just the two of them. His little best friend. They’d done everything together. It didn’t matter what Cindy was up to. So long as Jake was smiling, properly fed and happy, and he went off to sleep at night with a story from his dad, what did it matter?

 

Then the divorce proceedings started. Suddenly Cindy was the world’s number one mum - going for full custody, due to Greg’s irregular hours and ‘dangerous lifestyle’. Mouthing off about him at every opportunity, to everyone who would listen. Texting him that he’d never see Jake again when she was finished.

In the end, it had all come to nothing anyway.

Mycroft didn’t even know.

Didn’t know about Jake - didn’t know about anything.


	17. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When hearing from Mycroft, Greg feels relief, but only for a short time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet more archival chapters from Tumblr.  
> These early chapters were all co-written by Mottlemoth as Mycroft and me as Greg.

**From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]**   
**To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]**   
**Sent: 6 August 2017 23:09**

Subject: I’m alive.  
Greg…  
If you happen to receive this in the next hour - please respond at once. I have access to email for sixty minutes, no more. We are only due to cross the damn border in two days. I haven’t bathed or had a proper bed in a week.   
God alone knows how many security protocols I’m flouting even to send you this… I do not care.   
I have spent seven days aching to reach for you, to tell you I am alive and that I spend my every spare moment comforting myself with the two nights we shared. Torturing myself with the third night, when I was not there. I cannot imagine the torment you have been through. I am sorry.  
It’s two am… I’m exhausted. I don’t know if what little battery life I’ve been able to scrape together out of nothing will even last sixty minutes until we move again…  
Dear God, Greg. What I would give to be in your arms. What I would do.  
In two days at 8 pm UK time I will call your mobile - please be there. It might be our only chance to speak for another three days.  
I don’t know what conditions will be like in the next stage of the operation but based on this one I will have neither wifi nor a bath nor a bed.  
Nor the chance to hear your voice.  
Please reply, Greg. I’m here for another fifty minutes. Please tell me you are okay. Tell me my brother is safe in the clinic.  
I would raise entire cities to the dirt for the chance to look into your eyes at this moment.  
Faithfully, desperately. Your Myc.

***  
On the seventh day, Greg was beginning to feel that just maybe he would make it through this. He’d woken yet again that morning thinking about Mycroft.   
As he shrugged on his coat, there came the sound of a text alert.  
“Shit…”  
He’d had no breakfast. The last thing he needed right now was an unexplained corpse.   
Thirty minutes later Greg found himself knees deep in muck and stench, reflecting that the universe didn’t really care what he wanted.  
After the body had been removed, evidence collected and catalogued, Greg got up to leave. He was stiff and his foot still hurt as he pulled himself out of the ditch with the makeshift rope ladder. Halfway up, he heard a ‘ding’ as his phone registered a new email. Jesus, what now?

He reached the top of the ditch, pulled out his phone and glanced at the name of the sender.  
For a few seconds he could only stare; then his knees went from underneath him.  
Sal was on him like lightning. “Shit - sir? You okay? You went down like a sack of potatoes…”  
Greg needed to get away.  
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, still feeling the effects of that stomach bug… and I haven’t eaten today… what time is it? Fuck - nearly three. I need to put something in my stomach. Meet you back at the office, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, Greg limped off to his car - desperate to read the email.  
As the words unfolded on the screen, his stomach twisted itself apart.   
Mycroft was alive.   
‘Alive’? Jesus, what had happened to him? Greg found himself fighting vomit as his mind blurred with every horrifying possibility he could imagine.

Mycroft was away - working - in danger. Greg stared at the message, “please reply”…  
He felt Mycroft’s plea through the words on the screen.   
He checked the time and hit reply.

 **From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]**  
 **To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]**  
 **Sent: 22 July 2017 22:21**  
Subject: Re: I’m alive.   
Oh, my gorgeous man….   
Don’t you dare die, don’t you dare die!   
I love you, do you hear that I love you…  
Everything else we can say when you come back to me….   
Oh God, I have missed you so much! Your Greg.

  


With the email sent, Greg closed his eyes.  
Not caring that he his car was still parked amongst the other police vehicles, he laid his arms on the steering wheel, put his head atop them and wept.  
He stayed sitting at the wheel for almost an hour, checking his phone every few seconds. No further emails came through.  
It was going to be a long, awful three days.  
***  
Three days later - ten minutes to midnight.   
In the UK, it would be just shy of eight PM.  
Mycroft left the camp unseen.   
He took the quiet path further up into the hills, where no light could be seen except the stars. Exhausted, filthy and pale, he sat down on a rock and checked his mobile reception - just enough. He didn’t dare risking walking any higher.  
It was five years since he’d smoked. Even the long celibacy hadn’t started him up again. This week had. It was the only way to stay calm. He shook a lighter and the cigarette packet from his coat, sparked up, and smoked as he watched the time on the mobile inch nearer to midnight. He was too old for this - two decades too old.  
At last, as 8 pm UK time clocked round, he dialled in a number he knew from memory. He hit ‘call’, held it to his ear, and waited.  
Only the stars looked down. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, noting as he did that his fingers were shaking slightly.  
Greg sat on the sofa, he had checked battery life, signal and the time at least a dozen times in the past ten minutes.  
His heart pounded as the seconds ticked slowly by…  
At eight o'clock to the second, the display on his phone lit up - Incoming Call from Mycroft Holmes.  
Greg pressed the green button to accept the call. He realised he was holding his breath.  
“Myc? Myc? You there?”  
There was a slight pause - before a familiar voice lit up his heart.  
As Greg’s voice broke over the line, Mycroft felt his chest constrict itself to half its size.  
For a few moments, he couldn’t speak with the sheer, agonising force of the emotion. His throat closed shut. His forehead creased, crippled by pain and exhaustion. He had never felt so tired. He had never felt so far away from everything good.  
He dragged hard on the cigarette, calming himself enough to speak.  
“Can you hear my voice? The signal isn’t ideal…” Mycroft’s voice was rough from lack of water and sleep; he sounded every bit as tired as he felt.  
“Yes, I can hear you. Where are you, Myc? Are you in danger?”  
“Not currently…” Mycroft closed his eyes, drowning silently in a moment of despair. To be in England now, he thought, laid safe in those arms. “I can’t tell you where I am… I’m sorry. I can tell you there are mountains. Anything else could compromise your safety on a colossal scale. Something I am not prepared to do.”  
He hesitated.  
His voice broke.  
“Greg…”  
Mountains?  
Where the hell was he?   
What had happened?  
“Myc…”  
“God, Greg… I… hearing your voice is - …”  
Mycroft dragged on the cigarette again, forcing himself to calm, to speak. He’d longed for this moment for days. Now it was here, he found himself too overwhelmed even to make words.  
“Hsshhhhh… it’s okay… I’m here and I’ll be waiting for you when you get home. Are you - … have been hurt?” Greg felt as overwhelmed as Mycroft sounded. He just longed to hold him… make him feel safe.  
Mycroft’s heart thumped hard. This was huge, he realised - it was vast. Titanic. Life-changing. Two dates in and this was how far they’d come already. Greg was the person he called from a mountain camp in the middle of nowhere - not his brother, not his parents, not his assistant. Greg Lestrade, who two weeks ago had been a handsome but straight and infuriating associate of his brother.

Mycroft sighed, letting the peace of it calm him - loosening the knot of fear and exhaustion in his chest.

“I’m… quite fine.” He rubbed uneasily at the sprained shoulder he’d received yesterday. “I’m sorry, Greg. I… can’t imagine what’s been through your mind this week. If you were waiting for your cue to turn tail and run from me, and never look back… this is it.”  
Greg almost laughed. “Well, when you see your messages and emails… and when you review the CCTV from outside your home… you might just want to run from me…”  
He took a deep breath.  
“I meant what I said in my email. I know it’s ridiculous… we haven’t known each properly for long at all, but - Myc, I think I’ve fallen in love with you… when I thought you’d vanished without a trace, I was beyond desperate…”  
Static crackled loudly over the line.  
“Mycroft… you still there?”  
Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat.  
“You - …”  
He hadn’t checked his e-mails. His head whirled as he heard those words - those precious words - thousand of miles away. The world, the stars and everything below them spun around him.  
“I… I’m still here.”  
He ran his hand back over his forehead, washed away by the enormity of those words.  
“Greg, I’ve… spent every spare moment thinking about you. About our two nights. What I felt. I know this is very new - … and now that you have discovered my career is perhaps a little more high-level than I normally admit, I… fear we have a lot to talk about, but I… want you to know… you are very, very dear to me. You amaze me. Your - capacity to care is like nothing I’ve ever experienced… I find myself attached to you. Desperately attached. I’m falling for you. I’m falling quickly, and deeply, and I need you to tell me at this moment now if that is not alright. I need you to tell me before I place my heart into your hands. I don’t know how far this will go. I don’t know what we have uncovered. I just know that you are a light in a world of darkness, and if it isn’t real, for the love of God, tell me now. Tell me or it will ruin us both.”  
Greg’s heart swelled. He’d never been one for flowery language, but the poetry of Mycroft’s words caused a lump to form in his throat.  
“Myc, I… can’t see the future. But I know you make me feel special. I’ve never felt this way before. Not about anyone. I need to get to know you properly. I guess there are things we need to talk about… probably shouldn’t even be mentioning them on this call, but when you get home… maybe if you can get a few days away to recover. And I’ll try to take some leave too?”  
Greg hesitated, biting his lip.   
“God, I miss you.”

"I miss you, too…” Mycroft heard himself sigh the words without thinking; his heart pulsed with warm, quiet joy. “I think I shall be entitled to rest when this is over… quite some time, if I can manage it. I’m too old for this lunacy. The contact refused to deal with anyone but me, but…”

He forced himself to stop talking. He wouldn’t endanger Greg.  
“Yes - time off. I promise. We shall take a week… perhaps even two. Talk. Discover each other.” Mycroft hesitated, his heart quietening. “Make love.”  
It wasn’t a horniness; it was a desperate need for comfort - for hands that cherished him - lips that adored him - to be wrapped up safely in clean sheets, with his lover’s skin, his lover’s sounds, his lover’s needs the only ones that mattered.  
Mycroft closed his eyes, tight.  
“We’re waiting for information at the moment. It should clarify things by morning. If the information is good, I can return to London in three days. If it isn’t good, this… could take some time.”  
The thought of Mycroft being stuck somewhere made Greg feel sick. He could feel it rising up in his throat.   
“I know you can’t tell me,” he said. “But - please… I hope you’ve got people around you. To protect you. Please be careful. I can’t lose you, not before we’ve even had a chance.”  
Mycroft almost smiled. He rubbed at his sprained shoulder, absent-mindedly, turning his eyes up towards the stars. The same stars were shining down on Greg back home, he thought. Keeping watch.  
"To say as little as I can,” he said, “my days are currently spent surrounded by some of the most skilful killers on the planet… fortunately, they are on my side. I’m not alone. Much of the danger is behind us.”  
Mycroft closed his eyes, breathing in the night air.  
“Where are you right now? I need to picture you… I need to see you in my mind.”  
Killers? Jesus, Myc… what are you up to your neck in?  
“I’m here in my house. Laying on the sofa, in the dark… so I can focus on your voice.“

Mycroft’s throat contracted a little, even as he smiled.  
“It’s dark here, too. Stars. I… shall ask them to watch over you tonight as you sleep, Greg. Until I can watch over you myself.”  
He took a moment to listen, ensuring he had not been followed.

“You have probably guessed I am not a minor official. I did this sort of… ‘overseas project management’ quite frequently when I was younger. I’m less often called upon now. Sadly this project was rather vital and they were correct in that they needed me.”

“God, Myc. Here’s me wanting to protect you, and it turns out you’re my very own action hero.”  
Greg sighed. This morning he’d felt like his life was over. Suddenly, he felt like he was on the road to something truly special.  
Mycroft laughed.  
It was the first time he’d done so in over a week.  
“Hardly… an aged action hero, perhaps. Now very much in need of protection - and patience.” He wrapped his fingers around the back of his neck. “I was looking forward to dinner.”  
“Mycroft, just… come back safe. We’ll book in somewhere - a shower as big as a football pitch - and a ginormous bathtub… and… a bed we can explore each other in… room service. I’ll feed you strawberries and champagne. Just come back safe.”  
Mycroft had never heard anything sound quite so good in his life. To spend a week somewhere luxurious and safe, exploring Greg again… strawberries and champagne.  
It was paradise in a sentence.  
“I shall come back. I promise.”  
He hesitated.  
“I won’t be able to contact you for three days… which might then become the day I return to London. Or it might not. I have no way of knowing just now. I’ll find a way to contact you - whether to say I am going to be a while longer or to say I’m on a flight. Will you be alright for three days?”  
Greg tried to slow his breathing, create some steadiness in his tone. Whatever he felt, it was nothing that Mycroft wasn’t going through tenfold.  
“As long as I know that you’re looking at the same stars as I can see - so long as I know you’re coming home at some point… I’ll be fine. Oh, sweetheart. Be safe.”  
Mycroft’s heart ached at his lover’s gentle tone. "Greg,” he whispered, wordless for a moment. The world was suddenly full of stars, he thought - brighter than they ever had been. “Is my brother alright?”  
Greg cursed for being so wrapped up in himself.  
“He’s okay… seems that he had a bit of swelling that caused the headaches. They’ve got him on prophylactic antibiotics to prevent infection, but he’s alright. John’s looking after him well.”  
“Greg, I… wish I were there to look after you. I know this can’t be easy. If you wish - and only if you wish, of course - if you wanted to stay in my home… I can call my assistant when we’ve finished speaking. I need to reassure her I am still alive anyway. I can tell her to have a key delivered to you. You will be safe there, and there is space - everything you need. If you feel lonely, perhaps, it will help you know that I shall return.”  
“I don’t know, Myc… I want to be there, but with you. When you’re back I’ll come to you. But I don’t know if I can be there until I’m certain you’re alright.”  
The line crackled again, causing Greg to jump.  
Mycroft smiled, understanding entirely. He couldn’t remain here much longer - he didn’t want his absence to be noted back at the camp.  
"I’m going to endure the next three days by envisioning our week together. I’ll make it perfect - I promise. If we can start with a very long and very hot bath, that would be exquisite.”  
As the word 'exquisite’ left his mouth, there came a curious sound from nearby - the tiniest, most delicate little snap.  
It was a twig breaking underfoot.  
Mycroft instinctively turned towards it.  
It saved his life.  
The bullet zipped past his cheek. Before he even heard it strike a nearby tree, he turned on his heel and sprinted for the nearby cover of the trees, vanishing between them. Further shots rang out, their cracks ricocheting across the hills.  
Mycroft wove his way in pitch darkness between the trees, dodging branches and rocks as he tried to get away. The phone in his hand was still connected, recording the sound of his desperate sprint and the gunshots that tracked his flight.  
Then, at last, there came a volley of shots, and a cry - and the crack of the phone hitting the rocky ground - and the line went dead.

Greg’s whole body turned to ice.  
That was a shot! A fucking shot!  
“Myc - Mycroft, what the hell?”  
He could hear footsteps - rushed, frantic. He clamped the phone to his ear, trying to memorize every sound as though Myc’s life might depend on it. The crunch of gravel - heavy breathing. Greg could almost smell the panic as his heart hammered.  
“Oh God - ” He found himself suddenly on his feet, shouting. “Mycroft! Myc - oh, Jesus - don’t be dead - don’t be fucking dead - Mycroft, are you okay?”  
Then - silence.  
Dead space, as the phone disconnected.  
Greg stared into nothingness.  
Suddenly his mind cleared - and he knew what to do.  
He wouldn’t even remember how he got to Mycroft’s home - how he came to be standing before the gates. It didn’t matter. With one deep breath, he started to climb. His feet hit the gravel path on the other side with a crunch - he ran towards the house, stopping only to stoop and snatch an ornamental rock from the garden.  
He skidded to a halt before the house, searching its face. The window by the door - they would all be alarmed, he knew - but that one would scream loudest. He seized the rock and hurled it as hard as he could at the corner of the window.  
The glass crazed - some sort of specialist glass, meant not to shatter if hit by a projectile. Greg hurried over, grabbed the rock and struck again, hard in the corner. This time, the glass gave way - Greg waited for the noise of a wailing alarm.  
Nothing.  
Greg stared, panting. “What the fuck?” he breathed.  
His question was answered almost immediately, by the slow and loud click of a gun.  
He shouted into the empty space, hoping that whoever was responding to the silent alarm wasn’t trigger-happy.  
“It’s DI Lestrade, New Scotland Yard - don’t shoot - Mycroft’s in trouble - ”  
A voice - a woman’s voice - shouted back at him.  
“Get your hands up, inspector. Let me see you.”  
Greg raised his hands into the air and stepped away from the building.  



	18. Irrevocably

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thousands of miles apart, but closer than skin in thought and spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting through the previous chapters quite quickly but, a lot more to go yet.
> 
> **

 

Within seconds, a woman and a man had emerged from the front door. They must have taken one look at his ashen face and realised that something indeed was terribly wrong.

The woman was speaking into a phone clamped between her shoulder and her ear. The gun had been transferred to her colleague, who took charge of steering Greg quickly and firmly inside the house

The questions began immediately.

 

“Tell us what you know.”

 

Greg told them - he told them everything. Shock was beginning to kick in. It was slugging at his brain, draining all the focus out of him. He didn’t know if he wanted to sleep, cry or throw up. He’d heard the shot. He’d heard the phone die. He didn’t want to think what else he might have heard die. He told them what he knew, and watched in fear as Mycroft’s two staff members withdrew to a corner to discuss the matter in hushed tones.

After a minute, he couldn’t stand it.

 

“Please,” he said. “Please - what can I do? He’s - he’s in trouble. He’s in real trouble. There must be something I can do.”

 

They paused, eyeing each other for a moment. It was the woman who spoke.

 

“Inspector, my name is Anthea… this is James. Why did you think to come here tonight?”

 

Greg looked at them, swallowing. “I - I just figured this place would be rigged with alarms… figured that the police would be called. I knew I could handle them. I also figured you’d be called. This is above police jurisdiction, isn’t it? I get that - so my only hope and Mycroft’s only hope is you.”

 

Anthea had gone distinctly grey. She frowned at him, looking quite as unnerved as he was.

 

“I doubt you’re a stupid man, inspector. If Mr Holmes chose to speak to you before me, then you must be - … well, you must be in his confidence. I can’t tell you anything right now. We know where he is, and where he’s expected to be… but he’s been out of communication with us for about a week. ”

 

James re-entered the room, carrying a glass. It had a generous amount of amber liquid in it.

 

The glass was pushed towards Greg.

 

It strengthened his ability to think.

 

More questions - question after question - and an hour later, Greg wasn’t much the wiser. But at least he felt less alone.

 

“I - need to speak to my boss,” he told Anthea, feeling his headache crushing his skull. “I can’t go in like this… not until I know Mycroft’s okay.”

 

Anthea nodded, understanding. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort that for you. Perhaps you should try to rest - I appreciate this is a worrying situation for you, inspector. Sleep will help. Trust that we’re doing all we can.”

 

Greg took the remaining whiskey up the stairs to Mycroft’s room - the room where, such a short time ago, his life had changed in the arms of a man who was now missing, possibly wounded, or dead. Without Mycroft, the room seemed empty.

 

Greg laid down on the bed, still clothed. He could smell Myc on the pillows - his hair, his cologne, his scent.

 

For the umpteenth time that week, Greg found himself sobbing into a pillow.

Greg woke to silence. For a while he simply lay still, tangled in the silk sheets, trying not to think about the day before.

 

Shots… actual shots. He quashed away the image of Mycroft lying dead of a gunshot wound to the head - worse, being tortured. Oh, God.

 

Greg’s gut twisted. He had to swallow down the bile that filled his mouth. Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on those words that were now written on the inside of his heart.

 

_“This will change things… irrevocably.”_

 

Mycroft had whispered to him when they were fucking - adored him - made love to him with his fingers, his mouth. For all his austere exterior, Mycroft was so very sensitive. Looking at Greg from under those beautiful lashes - almost shy, almost grateful. He was two men - the great and the glorious, and the shy and sensitive - wrapped up in one perfect package.

 

There was a knock on the door. James popped his head round. “Coffee?”

 

Greg showered, changed into casual clothes pilfered from Mycroft’s wardrobe, then joined James and Anthea to try and figure out every piece of information he could.

 

By the end of the morning, he still didn’t know what country Mycroft was in, who he’d been meeting, or how things had gone wrong. He did, however, learn that, far from being the tiresome pen-pusher that Sherlock described his brother was, Mycroft was, in fact, a highly-trained soldier, marksman and negotiator. Greg also learned that he wasn’t alone at this time - but travelling as part of a team of some of the most dangerous men in the world.

 

Anthea had looked nervous, pained at times when she thought that Greg wasn’t looking. He saw her share glances with James - telling, awful glances, full of tension and worry. She kept her head down, texting rapidly on her blackberry, occasionally snapping orders at someone on the phone, pulling up document after document on her laptop. James seemed to stay on the periphery - always in earshot, ready to assist. Greg didn’t know if he was reassured, but at least he wasn’t on his own.

 

At last, Anthea made a discovery. 

 

Recent satellite images had been picked up - they showed the group moving north toward civilisation. They just had to keep their heads down and keep moving toward their rendezvous with safety.

 

They just had to hope that Mycroft was amongst them.

 

For the next three days, he paced Mycroft’s rooms, looking at every inch of the man’s home and yet seeing nothing. Every step was a silent mantra: “… please come home, please come home, please come home…”

 

 **

Each night, in Mycroft’s mind, it was Greg who settled him down to sleep.

 

As soon as he closed his eyes, his bedroll and the rocky ground beneath it were gone, replaced with the soft slab of his mattress, clean sheets and feather pillows. He was no longer shivering in the night’s black cold after a long day in the burning sun. It was warm, safe and quiet here; he was home. It was all alright. 

 

He let his mind build up the soft beige walls of his bedroom around him, lay the ceiling safely on top, and turn low the lights. His imagination filled his stomach with more than basic rations - a proper meal - a restaurant, perhaps - a dessert they’d shared, two spoons and bedroom-eyes across the table, Greg in a smart shirt and cologne - and now they were home. Gentle music was playing from the iPod docked on the antique chest of drawers in the corner. Love songs. Slow rhythm. 

 

He was not lying under canvas in the middle of nowhere, miles from running water, miles from an airport, miles from even basic shelter. 

 

He was on his back, clean and warm and safe, head grinding with quiet desperation into the pillows as Greg’s cock moved slowly inside him - as kisses were brushed across his softly panting lips - as the voice breathed ’sweetheart’ to him; whispered to him, ‘I’m falling in love with you’.

 

In his misery, sometimes the vision began to blur - and a darker, sharper voice crept through. It hissed at him from its long-held lair within his own weary heart, telling him it had not really been like that. He was romanticising it; it was all a folly. They’d slept together twice. That was all. 

 

He’d get back to London and it would be awkward, and strange - and even if it really had been like that, as perfect as he remembered, then it would all now be burned out - he would return to cold ashes, and love was an illusion, and he was a fool.

 

Sometimes, he listened to the voice for longer than he should.

 

But even the voice knew they must find a way to sleep if they were going to survive. The voice wanted him to suffer; it always had.

 

But it did not want him to die.

 

And so each night, as he laid himself out on the hard ground, he let a shadowed dream of Greg comfort him to sleep. 

 

In his mind’s eye, he lost himself in the imagined experience of Greg showering with him, washing the dirt and the dried blood slowly from his skin, replacing the week’s sweat and grime with soap and warm water and a clean, white towel. He felt Greg kiss him and hold him, and say soft things to him, and take him to bed - make love to him. Slow; candles on the bedside. Gentle fingertips feathering down his sides. Feeling Greg’s deep shudder, hearing him swear softly as he came inside Mycroft’s body.

 

After, in the calm that followed the rush, Greg cradled him and stroked his hair until he slept.

 

He was not alone.

 

He had not escaped death by half an inch. He had not then spent two hours evading a pistol-wielding killer across the mountains, tracked a stream for eight miles to find the rest of his team, and there was definitely no chance they would now be captured at any moment and thrown in some concrete pit for the rest of their lives. It was all okay.

 

He had to sleep; the only way to get there was to dream.

****


	19. On British Soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, these guys get to speak again..... plans are afoot for a hot homecoming
> 
> **

**Three days later, Mycroft Holmes - alive, if not well - used the very last of his strength to march up the steps of the British Embassy.**

**He’d never been so glad to see the flag before in his life.**

**They’d lost two members of their team. Though the mission had been in theory a resounding success, the cost had been far higher than calculated. Spirits were low.**

**But it was over.**

**Their group arrived filthy, bloody and exhausted into the lobby, where a concerned member of staff pressed a discreet button for security.**

**“Mycroft Holmes,” he told her, his voice grating. He’d not drunk a drop of anything since they’d left the camp by jeep at four PM yesterday. “Tell Sir Andrew I am here.”**

**She nodded, a little fearful, and hurried for the phone.**

**Mycroft quietly noticed that she had two.**

**“May I?” he asked her, as she waited for the ambassador to answer. She nodded, pushing the second phone towards him.**

**He picked up the receiver, dialling a familiar number. He made a quick mental calculation that in London, it would be half past two in the morning.**

**He let this explain the lack of an answer. He hung up, swallowed, and dialled another number that was answered almost immediately.**

**“Yes?” said Anthea’s voice.**

**“I am alive,” Mycroft rasped. “Where is Greg Lestrade? Is he alright?”**

**“He’s asleep in your room, sir,” she said. Mycroft’s heart pounded. “Shall I wake him?”**

**For half a moment, Mycroft almost said no - loathe to wake Greg up. Then he recalled that Greg had apparently heard him shot three days ago.**

**“If you would,” he murmured. “I… need to hear his voice.”**

**As Mycroft waited for Anthea to carry the cordless phone to the master bedroom, the embassy’s receptionist finished her quiet phone conversation and hung up.**

**“Welcome to the embassy, Mr Holmes…” she said. “You, of course, have our protection and assistance. We will show your team to the private accommodation now, to allow you to rest. Sir Andrew has said he will see you this evening. Until then, the safety of the embassy is yours.”**

**In his ear, Mycroft heard the quiet creak of a bedroom door. He took in a breath.**

**Anthea’s voice was audible as she woke Greg. “Inspector… Inspector Lestrade. Phone for you.”**

**Greg took the mobile from Anthea, half-asleep. His body shook as he spoke into the phone.**

**“Hello? DI Lestrade…”**

**For a moment all was silent. He watched the door being closed softly behind Anthea as she left.**

**Mycroft took a moment to remind himself he was standing in the lobby of a public embassy. He wet his dry lips, took a breath and said, his voice as rough as ever,**

**“Greg, it’s… me.”**

**Greg’s heart skipped a beat.**

**“Myc - you’re alive…” He fell back on the bed, his body enveloped by the warmth of both mattress and Mycroft’s voice.**

**“I’m alive,” Mycroft murmured, closing his eyes briefly as he swallowed. “I’m sorry to wake you… I wanted you to know I’ve reached the embassy. I’m quite safe now. I have full mobile coverage and internet access…”**

**He hesitated, breathing deep.**

**“Would you rather I call back in the morning?”**

**“You’re safe? Thank God. The morning? Are you kidding me? Oh God, Myc - I’m so relieved to hear you… is it secure there? Can we Skype?”**

**The words tumbled from Greg’s mouth. He needed to see Mycroft - to see his face - to make sure this wasn’t some elaborate ruse.**

**Mycroft found a smile settling across his face for the first time in days. He took a discreet glance around the lobby - few people were around, none of them listening in.**

**“It’s secure here… I’ll ask the ambassador’s staff to provide a laptop for me. We can skype. I’ll need an hour to shower and put on clean clothes. I’m… something of a mess. But we can do that.” He lowered his gaze, smiling. “You’re in my room.”**

**Mycroft’s voice soothed Greg’s heart.**

**“I’m sorry, I… I erm… broke into your house! I -  … oh God, I thought you’d been shot! I had to do something. I needed to feel close to you.”**

**Mycroft laughed, unable to help himself. He suddenly didn’t care that there were people around.**

**“It’s quite alright…” he murmured. “I did offer. I’m glad you’re there.”**

**He sighed, breathing the relief deep into his body. It was more potent than any drug.**

**“Let me acquire a bar of soap and a laptop with Skype. I hate to ask you to endure another hour without me - but after that, I’m yours. We can talk all night if you like. Get yourself a coffee, ask Anthea to set up the connection for you… one hour. I promise. Will that be alright?”**

**Tears began to burn silently in Greg’s eyes, the stress of the last week finally released.**

**“Okay, I can do that - one hour - oh God, I wish I was there to wash you… do you need to talk to Anthea again now? ”**

**Mycroft’s heart ached behind his ribs. “No… Anthea can wait until morning. Tonight is yours. I’ll call very soon.”**

**Coffee in hand, Greg rubbed a hand through his hair. He stared at the laptop, willing it to spring to life.**

**Anthea had set the laptop up in his bedroom to give him privacy. He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the video call to come through.**

**It was fifty-six minutes after the phone call that laptop screen blinked, and a bright blue alert popped up to announce an incoming call. The laptop answered automatically. A video feed expanded at once to fill the screen, flickered, and began to broadcast.**

**Mycroft appeared - washed, smiling, and dressed in a white shirt open at the neck. His ten days’ reprieve from a razor had produced a short, thick and fiercely red beard, which he rubbed with an apologetic grin as he appeared on the screen.**

**“I haven’t had time to shave,” his voice said, rumbling from the laptop’s speakers into his bedroom thousands of miles away. “I’ll deal with it this evening… I promise.”**

**Behind Mycroft, the ambassador’s private guest room was discreetly opulent and currently full of bright gold sunlight, white curtains stirring in an idle breeze.**

**For a second, Greg could only stare. The gods had smiled on him.**

**“Oh… God, Mycroft… the beard. You look like - fuck…”**

**Greg bit his lip.**

**“Any chance you could keep the beard? At least until you get home?”**

**He’d never realised he had a thing for bearded men until this image of Thor had presented himself. Myc’s rugged face was the most handsome one he’d ever seen. He drank in Mycroft’s appearance - the cut over his left eye, the bruising visible through the opening of his shirt - he noticed the wince as the man shifted in his chair. Oh, Christ, Myc was hurt.**

**“When will you be able to come home? And - have you seen a doctor? And you’re sure you’re now safe?”**

**Greg felt like a new copper again - uncertain of what to do, what to say…**

**But then he caught the twinkle in Myc’s eyes and smiled.**

**Mycroft had never wanted to wrap his arms around an electronic device so much in his life. He wanted to reach through it and pull Greg gently through the screen, out of the three AM darkness and onto his lap in the sunlight - kiss him, rake his hands through that sleep-tousled grey hair, strip off what Mycroft now realised was one of his own sleeping shirts. His smile broke into a grin.**

**“Beards, mm?” he mused. “I suppose you did say ‘redheads’… and there’s an awful lot more red about me now…”**

**Mycroft sat back a little in his chair, twitching slightly with the shoulder sprain. It did nothing to diminish his smile.**

**“I had medical aid out in the field,” he promised. “Rest and anti-inflammatories now… and yes. I’m entirely safe. The ambassador has us under his protection. We are out of reach of hostile forces.”**

**He reached beside the laptop, just out of sight of the screen, and retrieved a mug. Mycroft drank from it deeply. The coffee inside was as black as walnut wood.**

**“I need to clear up matters here,” he murmured. “Two days. Perhaps three. I’ll have constant access to a phone and the internet, and nobody will be aiming a firearm at me. Our circumstances have improved immeasurably.”**

**Greg smiled mischievously. Knowing that Myc was safe and relatively unharmed, it was kinda hard not to just admire him.**

**“Okay, you do look like you’ve been in a war zone, but… Christ, I could shag you now. That beard. Phhhh…”**

**He blew air out of puffed cheeks.**

**“Listen… Anthea’s arranged time off work for me - I hope she’s not abused your power. It’s just… I was useless…. and I’m not going back until you’re home. Here, right here, with me.”**

**He reclined against the pillows, gesturing his left arm over the bed where he and Mycroft had recently made love.**

**“I’ve got… happy memories of this bed. I want to see you back in it.”**

**Mycroft’s laughter rang over the Skype connection, his grin shining brighter than the sunlit room behind him.**

**“Scoundrel,” he soothed, his eyes flashing as he finished his coffee. He put the mug aside with a clunk and leant nearer to the screen, drinking in the sight of Greg reclining against his pillows. It was the most perfect sight of home that he’d ever seen.**

**It seemed… bizarre to think they’d only had two nights together. Greg looked as natural in Mycroft’s bedroom as if he’d lived there for years now - as happy to see Myc as if they’d spent every single day together for months.**

**Mycroft’s heart expanded slowly as he sighed, his thoughts warmly visible in his expression.**

**“Very happy memories,” he murmured. “And it’s not an abuse of power - not at all. I’d have expected nothing less. Stay in my home, where you are safe, and sleep in my bed until I’m back. Let those happy memories comfort you when I can’t.”**

**As Mycroft leant closer, and Greg got a better look at the injuries, he had to quash a little anger within him. Somebody had hurt Myc. Was this the first time? Putting that thought into a box and closing the lid, Greg found a smile instead.**

**“I guess you’ll have a stack of paperwork for me to fill in… now I know a 'bit too much’ about your work.”**

**Mycroft’s eyes gleamed over the webcam. “You know nothing about my work,” he murmured, a little playful, as he reached up to rub the site of his sore shoulder. “I’ve very carefully kept all details from you. You… will need to sign a few things, now that you and I have embarked upon a sexual relationship… I’m afraid I’m not joking.”**

**“I know that you put yourself in danger for this country,” Greg said, raising an eyebrow. “I know you work almost all day every day, and you can make grown men cry, and make detective inspectors beg for sex…” Greg laughed at the look of incredulity that appeared on Mycroft’s face.**

**Mycroft folded his hands slowly together, resting his chin upon them as he eyed Greg with great interest over the video link.**

**“Funnily enough,” he said, “the latter two are not listed as skills in my official file.”**

**Greg actually giggled. He could feel all the remaining tension of the last few days seeping away.**

**“I’m glad they’re not… no one but me gets to know these things about you.”**

**“No-one but you,” Mycroft murmured. His heart glowed as Greg laughed; he felt ten years younger within the space of ten minutes. “Greg, we’ve… had a sum total of two dates. I’m not even sure either of them counted as a date. And yet here I am, gazing at you and unable to look away. I want to spend the entire night making you laugh. What has happened to us?”**

**Greg had pondered this exact question. He still didn’t have an answer. “Maybe… I don’t know…” he said. “Do you believe in stuff like soulmates?”**

**He felt a blush rise on his cheeks. God. Lager-drinking, football-playing London copper… now talking about this? Still… it felt right. He couldn’t push that aside. He couldn’t forget how he’d spent the last week.**

**Mycroft smiled a little. He’d never given the concept much thought before - too cynical, too work-minded. It was easy not to believe in something you never expected to have anyway.**

**Their connection was… breath-taking, whatever it was. And it had been there from the beginning - Greg had always gotten under his skin. Always. Now Mycroft just wanted to stare at the man, listen to his voice.**

**“You are very easy to… fall for,” Mycroft concluded, softly.**

**Greg settled himself sideways on the bed, his knees drawn up, the laptop resting on the bed in front.**

**“I’ve always been a bloke… never really paid heed to stuff like that… but with you - we’ve certainly got a connection. I know that much. I think we felt it from the beginning, you know? Maybe that’s why… I think that’s why we argued so much.”**

**Mycroft gazed at the image of Greg on his screen, nestled down in his bed so many miles away. His heart heaved.**

**“Greg,” he murmured, softly. What he would give to be there, he thought - even for five minutes - just to hold him, stroke his hair, breathe in the scent of his neck. “You look… right, lying there. You look rather like you belong.”**

**“I want to talk to you all night,” Greg murmured. “I know it’s selfish… if you still have ends to tie up, you need sleep. Maybe some painkillers… I should probably go home, get clothes tomorrow and… wait here for you? If that’s okay. And you should try and rest.”**

**Mycroft smiled softly. “Stay as long as you want in my home,” he said. “I rather like the thought of you there. As I say… three days, at the most, and I can fly home. Until then, I’ll only be an email away. I’ll be staying and working inside the embassy, so I won’t be disappearing at any point.”**

**His eyes shone.**

**“I promise.”**

**Greg could feel himself slipping towards sleep. The few hours he’d managed over the last week had been insufficient. He’d felt old, and tired. Now Mycroft’s voice was so close to him, and it was all going to be okay.**

**“I’ll dream of you being here,” he mumbled. “Just holding each other close.”**

**Mycroft’s heart thumped softly as he realised Greg was falling to sleep. He watched him through the screen, his eyes soft.**

**“Good night, darling,” he murmured. “Sleep safe.”**

**He waited a few minutes, making sure that Greg had fallen safely to sleep - making sure that all was well. He then closed the call, smiled to himself, and leaned back in his chair. The room breathed gently around him, curtains stirring in the afternoon ’s breeze.**

**For a while, Mycroft simply enjoyed the quiet, and the peace, and the feeling of his skin being clean - the safety of walls and a roof around him.**

**He couldn’t wait to go home.**


	20. Skype porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys don't intend to let a thousand miles get between them when they are craving touch and attention. 
> 
>  
> 
> *****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget this was initially written over a year ago with Mottle moth Playing Mycroft and me playing Greg.
> 
>  
> 
> *****

_From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 16:03 

_Subject: Rise and shine…_

Good morning…

Do imagine me laying down a tray of toast, eggs and coffee for you.

x

 

\----

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 08:06

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

Good morning Myc,

Looking at your time stamp, you are eight hours away early evening for you - have you managed any rest since we chatted?

I can’t believe I fell asleep on you last night! I had good dreams, I will tell you all about it when you get home.

How are you?

Thanks for breakfast…. I wish you were here now…  

Greg x

 

\--

 

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 16:10

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

I’m well. I had a few hours’ sleep around midday. Rather magnificent to have a mattress and a pillow again… fieldwork always leaves me appreciative of home comforts.

It was wonderful seeing you fall to sleep.

Good dreams? Must I wait until I’m home?

I have spoken to Sherlock, by the way. It was good to hear his voice. He said you were rather frantic to find me - he was quite concerned for you.

Touching to hear.

Your Myc. x

 

\--

 

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 08:13 

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

Myc,

Every time I see an email from you, I feel relief once again.

How do you feel about massage? I will avoid the shoulder, but maybe it will help………. relax you even more when you get home?

The dream? Are you sure these emails are secure?

Greg x

 

\--

 

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 16:15 

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

I sit in the private guest room of the British embassy; you are using an MI5 laptop with security features that can counter theoretical hacking technology that hasn’t even been designed yet.

There is no more secure connection on this planet.

Tell me…

x

 

\--

 

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 08:21 

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

Who am I to refuse when MI5 has gone to such lengths to protect you…….

I was laying in your bed, fast asleep, in my dream…

It’s weird isn’t it to dream of sleeping?

Anyway, I dreamt that I woke suddenly, I was naked. You were there, filthy, boots, combats. And that fucking beard…….

You didn’t speak, you just kissed me, could feel the hair on your face, was so …..  real…  

You just went down on me, took me in your mouth, oh your mouth….

Myc have you the faintest idea how fucking sexy you are?

Oh God, I could feel my cock in your throat, your tongue….. “you need a license for that thing!” Could feel- Christ you were fucking me with your mouth….

I woke up so hard, I christened your bathroom!  Jesus, I miss you….

Greg

 

\--

 

 

 _From: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]_  
To: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 16:26

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so passionate as you… do you know that?… and you have quite a way with words.

It’s rather inspiring.

I am now very distracted by the thought of you tending to your needs…

I imagine the beard might feel rather good in a number of places for you. A little rough, perhaps. Something in me suspects that is no bad thing.

How good you would look on your back on this desk right now.

Your legs resting over my shoulders; your hands in my hair. Papers scattered. Whimpering my name as my tongue slowly fucks you to despair.

x

 

\--

 

 

 _From: Greg Lestrade [glestrade101@gmail.com]_  
To: Mycroft A. H. [sourceofthestream@gmail.com]  
Sent: 13 August 2017 08:30 

_Subject: Re: Rise and shine…_

Fuuuck….

I hope Anthea and James aren’t within earshot.

I have never been like this with anyone… I’m both excited and terrified…. oh, and now…. horny as hell again

Greg

 

 --

 

 

A minute later, Greg’s inbox was interrupted by the brief flash of a blue alert box. 

_INCOMING CALL FROM MYCROFT HOLMES._

The laptop auto-accepted the call. The video feed expanded at once to fill the screen. It showed Mycroft closing and locking the bedroom door, then returning to the desk, sitting back idly in his chair, and removing a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Lie back,” he murmured, as he lit one. “Take off your boxers… don’t you dare touch that beautiful cock until I let you.”

When the laptop accepted the incoming video call from Mycroft, Grep gulped.

He glanced over at the bedroom door - no lock. Shit…

Okay, what the hell.

In the seconds it took Greg to divest himself of his boxers, he was hard. His heartbeat enthusiastically in his rib cage. He licked his lips,  then noticed the cigarette with interest.  _He smokes._  Greg hadn’t realised.

Greg laid back on the luxurious pillows, fighting not to touch his cock.

Mycroft watched with great interest as his commands were obeyed, rubbing his thumb idly along the length of the cigarette. The laptop was placed rather sensibly on the bedside - where Mycroft could see, but not be accidentally upended in delirium.

As Greg settled back against the pillows, comfortable, his lover murmured,

“Close your eyes… feel my gaze on you. Roaming you.”

He could feel his own heart purring with enjoyment already.

“Know that I sit here a thousand miles away,” he said, “feeling a physical ache in every fraction of my body as I look at you… as I long for you. As I contemplate how it would feel to trail my mouth where only my eyes can go…”

Mycroft blew out a column of smoke, watching the scene on his laptop with intent and smouldering eyes. He’d not felt like this in a decade. Powerful. At ease. The words flowed as smoothly from his lips as velvet, Alton’s many years of expertise coming to the fore.   

“How it would feel,” he murmured, “to stroke my tongue along your collarbones… scrape my teeth across your nipples. Feel them tighten. Idle my lips slowly around the head of your cock, warming you with my breath.”

Greg closed his eyes as instructed, his skin on fire with desire. He felt like his bones were turning molten.

Mycroft’s words washed over him; a quiet moan slipped from his lips in response.

He felt no embarrassment as his cock twitched for Mycroft to see. He could almost feel his lover’s hands on his body.

Mycroft smiled quietly around the cigarette as he took a slow drag. He liked the little moan. He was almost surprised to see Greg obeying him and not touching - he wondered what it would take for Greg to break the rule. He decided to find out.

“You liked the idea of my tongue inside you,” he remarked, quietly. “I like it too. I like the idea of the sounds you might make. I like the idea of keeping you there on your back, thighs parted, coaxing you with my tongue until you’re so desperate for something more inside you that you beg me. I’d like to feel your hands pushing desperately through this new beard you’re so fond of. And I’d like to watch your pupils dilate as you take my prick inside you for the first time.”

Greg opened his eyes, catching Mycroft looking over his body. Breath coming fast, he lipped his lips and moved slightly to give Myc a better view.

Myc was obviously enjoying his turn at dominating him. Greg was more than happy to oblige.

 

“Mycroft…” he breathed. “I want you to fuck me - your mouth - your tongue inside me. Jesus, it’s good…”

 

Greg clutched the sheets, determined not to jerk himself off.

 

“Fuck, to feel your beard on my skin - on my arse…  _fuck_ Myc, what have you done to me?”

 

He could feel the perspiration starting on down his neck, his chest slick and hot, his balls tight - God, he needed to come already.

Mycroft breathed in slowly, lifting his chin a little as Greg stirred to show him. He ran his thumb quietly up and down the cigarette. Oh, to be home now. To walk through that bedroom door and find Greg waiting for him like that… hard - desperate. Wanting him.

 

“You are beautiful,” he murmured. “Utterly beautiful… Greg, we have much to discover… I hope Scotland Yard don’t expect to see you for a week after I’m home. I won’t be letting you out of the bed.”

 

He dragged on his cigarette, slow, flicking the ash into a tray off to the side.

 

“Are you restless for me, darling? Would you like to feel your hands?”

 

Greg began to pant slightly. Knowing the effect his body had on Mycroft was rather thrilling.

 

“I wanna feel every part of you,” he managed. “On every part of me.”

 

His voice was now husky and row. He watched as his words visibly made the other man shiver.

 

“Please - let me touch myself. Let me come for you when I’m here thinking about you…”  Greg didn’t move to his cock, but his fingers fluttered, trying to will his hand to grasp his erection. “Imagine it’s your hands on me…”

“You will, darling… ten days from now, I intend to know every single part of your body better than my own…” Mycroft shivered slowly, unable to suppress his desire any longer. It had been a miserable, hellish week. He wanted to come. He wanted to come watching Greg stroke himself, listening to those sounds whose memory had been his only comfort this week.

He crushed out his cigarette, swallowing. He swiftly undid the buckle of his belt.

“Slowly,” he said - his voice shook a little. “Let me watch you. There’s oil in the drawer if you’d like.” He shuddered softly as he freed his cock, wrapping himself firmly in one hand. “Greg,” he managed, weak, a flush of colour appearing in his cheeks.

As Mycroft unzipped his trousers and took out his cock, Greg felt a burn begin deep in his core, reaching out to his extremities. He’d never felt like this. Heat pricked at his eyes as he watched Mycroft start to stroke himself.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed.

As Greg worked his cock, his eyes never left Mycroft. Each touch, each stroke was Myc’s fingers on him. His cock soon glistened with pre-come, making the extra lubricant unnecessary. He knew he wouldn’t last long. He didn’t want to. He drank in Mycroft’s image greedily, matching stroke for stroke.

 

“Fuck…” he gasped. He arched, stretching. “Fuck, Myc - I’m gonna come soon - …”

 

Mycroft’s chest soon rose and fell in deep, slow breaths, his colour high in his cheeks. Two weeks ago, he’d have thought this sort of thing was sordid. Now it was doing everything in the world for him. He worked himself slowly, watching Greg’s hand rub and stroke at his own cock, his head resting back against the chair. More, his body seethed. More, more. He wanted to kiss; he wanted to feel. He wanted to tear buttons off a shirt and slam Greg against something, kiss him hard. He wanted to push his head back into a pillow as that heavy cock nudged into his throat. He wanted to ride Greg; he wanted to be ridden. This was simultaneously the most frustrating and satisfying experience he’d had in days.

 

“God alive, I miss you…” he breathed, shuddering. He swallowed hard. “I wish I could kiss you…”

 

Greg’s body screamed for Mycroft’s touch. He breathed harder, his heart beating faster, his cocky heavy and hot in his hand. He groaned in desperation.

 

“Myc…” He heard his own voice come out as a cry. “Oh God, I want you - want you to fuck me… be the first to fuck me…”

 

He felt his balls tighten past the point of no return and gazed at Myc - panting, flushed, beautiful.

 

“Fuck, yes -  _yes_ \- …”

 

As Greg came, hard and fast, pulsing over his belly, the words were pulled from his throat.

 

“Ohh -  _baby_ \- come for me…!”

 

The first. Mycroft drew in a sharp breath, hit with a rush of shock and arousal as he heard those words.

 

No-one had fucked Greg before. No-one had taken him.

 

Holy God. And here he was, moaning, gasping and coming at the thought that Mycroft would be the first. Mycroft stiffened, searing with it - he hissed and bit hard into his lip as the climax ripped through him, his back arching against the chair.

They might have to have words about ’ _baby_ ’. ’ _Not in public_ ’, for a start. Having said that, right this second now, Greg could call him whatever the fuck he liked, and Mycroft would answer to it.

As he came down, breathing hard, Mycroft opened one eye to find that boyish grin coming back at him through the laptop screen. He smiled back, his eyes glittering, his smirk given a roguish edge by the beard.

 

“Good morning,” he murmured, playful. His fingers were coated in his own come; he winced a little, splaying them. “Mm. I feel fifteen again.”

 

Greg grinned, drifting on a cloud of endorphins and post-coital bliss.  

 

“That was amazing…” he huffed. “Cybersex, huh? It’s never felt like that before… not sure I’ll be able to show my face outside the bedroom for a while. I’m surprised Action Girl didn’t come running in to stop a crime in progress…”

Taking a steadying breath, Greg said,

“Myc, is this real? I feel - … I dunno, I feel like I’d walk off a bridge for you if you needed me to… you’re so special. I miss you… miss your company… I even miss our arguments.”

 

Mycroft’s smile curved wider at the edges, his eyes brightening as he reached for a box of tissues helpfully nearby on the desk. He wondered briefly if post-Skype-call clean-up sessions happened often at this desk, then swiftly decided to put that thought aside.

As he cleaned off his hand, he said,

“We can have an argument if you like… I can’t think of anything you’ve done to aggravate me recently, except ‘being a thousand miles away’… but then, that state of affairs is hardly your fault.”

He scrunched up the tissue, tossing it away.

 

“I miss you too,” he said. “Desperately. Don’t think this is just… carnal. It’s just that I happen to be very physically attracted to you… and, to be entirely honest, Greg… you rescued me from a significant stretch of involuntary celibacy. I hadn’t had a lover in a mortifying length of time. It - feels good to be wanted. Perhaps some part of me is making up for lost time.”

 

“God, I’m not complaining,” Greg laughed. “It’s just… y'know, we got off to a bad start. I’m not very good at feelings. I wanted you to know. This isn’t just… well, a quick fuck… or…”

 

Greg blushed as became aware of his ramblings. Jesus, he felt like a teenager again, trying to talk a girl into going out with him…

 

“Just get home, will you?” he said. “Then we can work on getting to know each other.”

 

Mycroft redid his trousers and his belt as he spoke, relaxing back in his chair. His eyes had become languid and soft, his expression eased.

 

“Perhaps we owe each other a date,” he said. “Something more than coffee and cake… dinner. Conversation. We’ll… begin at the beginning. I know we’ve been rather wild for each other, but… I’d like to know you. Very deeply. You can tell me more about Spanish architecture.”

 

Greg grinned. “Somewhere nice?”

 

“Anywhere you like,” Mycroft said. “Name it, and I’ll take you there. As soon as I’m home.”


	21. Hush...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back together and sweet sweet sweetness....
> 
>  
> 
> ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted over a year ago on Tumblr when Mycroft was played by MottleMoth and Greg by me....
> 
>  
> 
> ***

Suddenly, Greg felt pressure on his legs - his hips were pinned. Warmth spread through his body.

 

He woke with a start - “Wha…?” - disorientated for a moment, then realised he was still in Mycroft’s bed. The last few days had been bearable, but long. Knowing Myc was safe - coming home soon - seeing his voice several times a day - it had helped, but not eased the pain entirely.

 

He stretched beneath the pressure - “What the hell…“ - and experienced a rush of panic as he tried to turn over in bed, finding himself pinned at the hips. His heart began to race. He forced himself to think - then…

 

"Hush…” breathed the voice.

 

Greg twisted - and there was Mycroft, astride him, watching him…

 

The breath went out of him in a whoosh. With superhuman effort, he tipped Mycroft off his legs, dragging him close at once. Mycroft held him back just as hard.

 

Greg nestled his face into Myc’s neck - warm, comforting hands stroked through his hair. He breathed in Myc’s scent, complete for the first time since he had gone missing.

 

“Shhh…” Mycroft pushed his fingers through Greg’s hair, rumpling it, brushing it back on itself in a slow ripple of silver and dark grey. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held someone so tightly. It was decades ago if it had ever happened at all. He pulled the sheets up, hiding Greg away, cradling him close. He didn’t want anyone else to see him again, ever. He was Mycroft’s now - Mycroft’s to hold, Mycroft’s to cherish, Mycroft’s to hide away. “Shhh… it’s all over… all over, now… I’m home.”

 

He realised he was telling himself as much as Greg; the truth of it took the breath from his lungs.

 

This is how it feels, he thought, as he pressed his shaking lips to Greg’s temple, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. This is how it feels when it begins. Those marriages that drifted happily for fifty, sixty years - those bonds that flooded the whole world around them with light - those couples who still hold hands in their eighties. Perhaps this was how those things began.

 

Only time would tell.

 

For now, there was something they needed to do. Mycroft’s bags were still piled by the bed. He was still wearing his damn coat, the passport stiff in his pocket and jabbing him in the side. Greg was in an old t-shirt and boxers - he was warm and vulnerable and gorgeous in Mycroft’s arms - sleepy - soft.

 

Mycroft had never wanted to sleep in someone’s arms so badly.

 

They could tear into each other like teenagers later. Greg didn’t know it, but they were going out to dinner - somewhere the wine cost more than the average sofa. They were going to share some very decadent and very alcoholic dessert with two spoons. Mycroft was going to kiss him the entire taxi journey home, and it would be a marvel if they made it up the stairs to bed.

 

But right now, they were going to sleep.

 

“I missed you,” Mycroft whispered into Greg’s hair. “Longed for you.”

 

Greg relaxed into the warmness that was Mycroft. The arms circling him were a wreath of roses without thorns.

 

“Go to sleep,” he mumbled. “I’ll stay here with you. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Over long minutes, he kept watch as Mycroft fell asleep - listening to the change in breathing, watching the tension melt out of his limbs.

 

“How did I get so lucky…” he whispered against Myc’s chest. “… to find a treasure like you?”

 

He found himself hypnotised by Mycroft’s rhythmic breathing and the peace in his expression. Feeling more wanted - more cherished than he ever had in his life - he fell back to sleep in his lover’s arms.

 

It was the deepest, most healing four hours of sleep that Mycroft had ever had in his life. He surfaced briefly from time to time, just for a moment or so - long enough to feel Greg still wrapped in his arms, close and safe, and to know that all was well - once, to pull himself clumsily out of his coat and cast it out of the bed. Sleep was as peaceful and soothing as the ocean at dawn. Greg’s slow, gentle breathing had become the heartbeat of his soul; Mycroft let it wash clean his every fear, his every pain.

 

He had no idea what time it was as he awoke. He stifled a vast yawn against Greg’s neck, shivering deeply, and gave a stretch. He then burrowed sleepily into the warmth of his lover’s body.

 

“Mmhm,” he mumbled, breathing deep. He wasn’t sure if he was still sleeping or not. “You - smell sublime…”

 

Slowly he began to rub Greg’s back - gentle, sleepy strokes up and down. A wave of perfect shivering realisation washed over him as he did.

 

“Greg,” he breathed. “I’m - home… thank God.”

 

As Mycroft awoke, Greg smiled softly.

 

“You’re lovely when you sleep - all softness. None of that austere crap you pull when running the country… I like it. A lot.”

 

He pulled away a little, examining Mycroft. “You’re still dressed, baby. Shall we get you in a shower? I can wash your back if you like.”

 

At the confirmatory nod, Greg reached for Myc’s buttons, slipping them free quickly one by one. The trousers followed; Greg breathed in Mycroft’s scent, that indefinable maleness.

 

“You smell good too…” Greg bit his lip. “Maybe we should just… postpone the shower until after we make a mess again…”

 

Mycroft’s shudder of longing was all the answer he needed. He let his fingers roam over Mycroft’s belly, then stroking upwards, wincing at the purple discolouration circling his shoulder. He kissed the blue and purple bruise lightly, willing it not to hurt.

 

Mycroft had relaxed under his ministrations.  Greg moved his hands gently down over his body, gently caressing each muscle, each centimetre of skin. Reaching the waistband of the boxer shorts, he looked at Mycroft from under his dark lashes, then eased them down over his hips and strong thighs.

 

The blood started to pound in Greg’s head. The urge to pounce - to take - was huge, but he was determined to move slowly, gentle the man who had been at such risk for days. He breathed lightly over Mycroft’s cock, hardening for his attention, in need of relief and comfort. 

 

Greg licked the shaft from base to tip, taking in the tangy musky scent of Mycroft’s body. It made him groan with hunger. “Myc…” he murmured. “You taste so bloody good…”

 

Mycroft shifted slightly at his words, hips raising slightly with a faint rush of breath as Greg took his cock in his mouth. Easing down slowly he allowed his mouth to warm, his tongue lightly stroking. Gently, gently… he could hear Mycroft’s breath coming thick and deep, but he wasn’t going to rush. If Myc was gonna come, he would do it from the gentleness of Greg’s touch.

 

Shifting slightly to take the full length of Mycroft’s cock into his throat, he stifled a gag. With one hand he stroked gently over Myc’s hip; the other hand skated up Mycroft’s chest until he found one flushed nipple, which he squeezed gently. Mycroft let out a sound he’d missed more than anything in the world, his hips jerking weakly upwards into Greg’s mouth. His fingers wove in Greg’s hair. He began to beg softly.

 

With rhythmic swipes of his tongue, Greg rocked his mouth slowly up and down Myc’s shaft - he could tell the friction was quickly pushing Mycroft to the edge. He knew the sounds now. He knew the tension in his stomach muscles. He knew the signs.

 

Gently pushing Myc’s thighs apart he lowered one hand to cradle his balls, the excess of his saliva creating a slick of gentle movement. Greg craned his head to glance up the bed at Myc - the blue eyes tightly closed, panting heavily with the effort of staying still, his head arched back into the pillow. Greg drew his lips back slowly, wrapped Myc’s cock tight in his hand and began to fist him quickly and tightly, just lapping the tip of his tongue across the head. Mycroft cried out - desperate, begging. Greg felt his balls tightening in his hand.

 

“I’ve so fallen in love with you…” he breathed, then plunged his mouth down over Mycroft’s cock - sucking on him hard to send Mycroft spiralling into orgasm. Greg swallowed hard, relishing everything he was given, listening to Mycroft heave and gasp and groan his name.

 

Then, as the last few pulses subsided, he wound his way quietly up the bed and kissed Mycroft gently on the mouth.

 

Holy hell.

 

Mycroft’s head spun as Greg kissed him, tasting himself in his lover’s mouth, his heart thundering and his breath dragging through him deeply. How had he coped for three years? It couldn’t be possible. Then he realised he’d never known that someone else’s company could feel like this - he hadn’t known what he was missing. It had blown the world apart for him. Everything was new.

 

And Greg had fallen in love with him.

 

Surely it was madness, he thought, as he panted - so soon - hell, they knew so little about each other still.

 

It felt so good though.

 

He’d not fallen madly in love in twenty years. He wanted to, so badly - he wanted to fall so hard in love that he never got over it. Ever. He wanted to fall stupidly, desperately, crazily in love. Damn it, he wasn’t getting younger. This might be the last time.

 

He hoped it was the last time.

 

And if it hurt, he would fucking let it hurt. Let it rip him open if it all went wrong, if he was a fool, and let it burn him up into nothing and he would go out with a flare - not creep silently and numbly into nothingness. He didn’t want to be lonely again. He didn’t want to live in a world of ice; he wanted the fire.

 

He pushed his hands into Greg’s hair, kissing him so deeply that his jaw soon ached.

 

Mine, he thought. All of you belongs to all of me. I will ruin anyone who takes you from me. I will burn up the seas if you go.

 

As their lips came apart, Mycroft’s chest was heaving. He stared into Greg’s eyes with a ferocity that betrayed his breaking heart. His eyes brimmed with all the pain he’d endured, the fear he’d faced, the loneliness that had laid him low.

 

“You’re in my blood now,” he breathed. “You have changed everything. Irrevocably. Change it more. Please. Change everything I have ever known. Change it all to hell and smash it to pieces, if you wish. And if someday you hate me, then hate me with all of your heart. Hate me until it feels good again. Just don’t ever let me go back to the quiet.”

 

The breathless words lodged themselves in Greg’s heart. Each one seemed to ring with love.

 

“We’re gonna make this work,” he swore. “I’ll never hate you. Be frustrated by you - most definitely - but never hate…”

 

Greg felt a tear slowly move down to his cheek. He’d rarely felt emotion as great as this - if ever, for a partner.

 

Placing a kiss gently on Myc’s forehead, he looked at him and whispered, “You’re precious to me - you know that? You’re one of the most precious things I have ever held in my arms.”


	22. Money to burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A real date.. romance and love.. and money to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously written and published on Tumblr in 2017 with MottleMoth playing Greg and Greg by me ...
> 
> Please leave some comments... It's taken a year to get to this point of relighting the fire under the RP... We are looking forward to bringing you some new adventures. But of course, comments here make us believe people are really interested.

They’d been cuddled up for the best part of the day - just being. The closeness granted them time to reacquaint themselves with each other. Sex had been slow and loving that morning - Greg had literally felt like he was dissolving into the bed, Mycroft caring for him in return as he’d gentled his lover to climax. They’d showered, had breakfast, and laid on the sofa together most of the morning - just talking - a tangle of arms and legs and quiet kisses.

 

“Come out for dinner with me,” Mycroft murmured, not long afternoon. “Let me spoil you.”

 

Nothing sounded more appealing to Greg - who realised he’d have to make the effort to go home and get some clothes.  Turning up at an exclusive restaurant might make more than a few tongues wag.

 

So it was, a few hours later, that Greg slid reluctantly away, with a promise to call for Mycroft’s car when he’d found himself a suit and a change of clothes.

 

As he went from room to room, Greg realised his clothes weren’t the only thing that felt changed - as though he was coming back to a house after a long holiday, all of it seemed a little strange and not at all like home. He washed the remaining crockery and threw away the hastily swept broken glass from the day that Mycroft went missing. He picked a book up off the floor, turning it over and feeling just a little guilty as he spotted the cover.

 

The book was beautifully bound, expensive. He opened the cover.

 

Dick -

It has been a pleasure knowing you.

I hope you find the happiness you deserve.

\- Alton.

 

Greg smiled slightly. How quickly things change, he thought.

 

He pushed the book back into place on the shelf and went to find a suit that would be respectable enough for the evening ahead. He grabbed a wash bag, and a couple of changes of clothes, not knowing how long he’d be away - but knowing that Myc wanted Greg to himself, for at least a while.

 

Reaching for his phone with a smile, he texted, I’m ready.

 

Car on the way. Hope you’re not averse to being spoiled… I’ve decided you need to discover my romantic side. x

 

The text was followed five minutes later by a sleek silver car, gleaming on the pavement outside Greg’s home, with a driver who opened the door for him with a stiff nod.

 

Mycroft was not inside it. He slipped inside, nodding to the driver, who took his bag and suit carrier and held the door open for him. Greg sank into the decadent leather upholstery, then noticed the rose - pure white with a long thornless stem. He picked up the rose, automatically bringing it to his nose to inhale the sweet aroma.

Beneath it laid a crisp white card, hand-inked with a message in the smoothest velvet-black ink. Mycroft’s handwriting was slightly slanted, florid and gorgeous - the kind of handwriting that adorned Victorian love letters, not grocery lists.

 

_"Greg… on the occasion of our first date. May it be a night to remember. I hope you have an overnight bag with you… x"_

 

When the car arrived, Greg was impressed. He had tried not to ogle the Jaguar XJ, brand new latest model - of course.

 

 

 

_Spoiled? He’d never in his life been spoiled._

 

His breath hitched as he began to realise how important this relationship must be to Mycroft. Of course, Myc was wealthy - that was a given. But had he never had anyone to share it with before? Greg wasn’t materialistic - he supposed he enjoyed fine things when they came his way. More than the fancy cars, the house, the money, he wanted to be able to have an equal. Someone to hold, and love… someone who wouldn’t let him down.

 

He found himself more than ever looking forward to the evening ahead - to the next however many evenings ahead.

 

The car set off west out of London, heading towards the Chiltern Hills. The sky softly darkened around the car, the quiet night drawing in, until around twenty minutes out of the city, Greg received a text message.

 

Don’t worry… I’m not spiriting you off to Mexico. You’ll be here in about twenty minutes. I may have combined our first date with our first long weekend away… but then, is it so bad that we are moving swiftly? x

 

The elegant country hotel at which the car arrived, twenty minutes later, was a sprawling Italian-style mansion of almost overwhelming opulence. Its gorgeous cream-stone frontage was uplit from below, visible all the way from the end of the long gravel drive. It was surrounded by gentle English woodland, with ivy twining around the sprawling front steps.

 

Waiting just outside the entrance doors, resting his arms on the ornate balustrade and watching the car’s approach, was Mycroft. For a man who dressed to impress every day, he had opted for simple and modern elegance - a well-cut suit in mid-grey, a pristine white shirt and, for once, no tie. The open neck of his shirt offered the quietest hint of the freckles that scattered his chest. The beard was still pride of pride, now neatened to precision.

 

As he waited, Mycroft was gently nervous, idly tapping his fingers on the balustrade. He knew there was no reason to be anxious. It was some time since he’d had a first date - some time since he’d made such effort. He hoped Greg wouldn’t think it was showy or excessive - hoped the other man would see it for what it was - a romantic urge to spoil and cherish. Mycroft so rarely had someone to share in his material resources. He just hoped this was welcome.

 

As the car pulled up, he smiled and reassured himself with a slow breath. The driver stepped out to hold the door for his passenger.

 

Mycroft made his way down the steps as Greg emerged from the car into the night air.

 

Overnight bag, he noted. Good. And he still had the rose… Mycroft wondered how long he would keep the card. He hoped that years from now, a nursing home attendant discovered it one day among Mr Lestrade’s most precious things - the rose long gone, the card kept forever.

 

This was going to ruin them, he thought - or make their lives worth living. One of the two. There was no middle ground here. Not for something this primal, this fierce.

 

“Thank you, Lawson,” Mycroft murmured to the driver, tipping him handsomely. Lawson inclined his head without a word. “We won’t need the car again tonight.”

 

Greg nodded at the driver. Lawson, he thought putting the knowledge away in case he needed it in future.

 

It had only been a few hours since he had been in Mycroft’s arms, yet as he saw him, butterflies clamoured within his stomach.

 

“Hello, you… dare I say I missed you already?” He stepped forward and hugged Mycroft, dropping the suit carrier and bag at their feet.

 

Mycroft smelt wonderful. Greg had already familiarised himself with the scent of his lover - it had become like a drug to him.

 

He stepped back, picked up the suit carrier and looked a bit sheepish. “You look fantastic… as usual… I’m sorry, I didn’t think to change first.”

 

Mycroft felt the breath vanish from his lungs as Greg hugged him - and he realised, reeling, that they hadn’t greeted each other this way before. _First_ hug. It had somehow come after a huge number of other firsts, including Mycroft’s first disappearing act off the face of the planet.

 

Perhaps tonight they could catch up on some missing milestones, Mycroft thought.

 

He wrapped his arms around Greg for a moment, closing his eyes - enjoying this moment. Stars above, the man smelt good. This was getting so animalistic.

 

“Forgive me for keeping you in the dark,” he said, smiling a little nervously as Greg stepped back. “I have a romantic streak… rather well-honed, now that I’ve spent years writing - …”

 

Mycroft’s brain shrieked at him as he suddenly heard the words coming out of his own damn stupid mouth. He switched track with the speed of a master fencer, finishing with a slightly startled expression:

 

“ … - terribly dull reports about government policy, one after another. One’s mind tends to wander. Romantic daydreams are par for the course. Shall we get you changed? And I think we’ve earned a drink…”

 

"Christ on high", he thought. "That was close."

 

The concierge opened the door for the men as they entered into the opulence of the foyer. Greg strode side-by-side with Mycroft - his Mycroft - to the lifts, taking in this splendour that was an everyday sight for Myc. He tried not to stare. This place was beautiful.

 

As they stepped through into their room - their suite - Greg gaped openly. It was gorgeous, and it was huge. A large bed with stunning powder blue velvet drapes edged with gold took centre stage, while a chaise set at the foot of the bed had Greg’s mind immediately wandering. Oh, to have Mycroft naked on that.

 

Blushing at his thoughts, and aware of Mycroft’s scrutiny, Greg wandered through into the luxurious bathroom - past a dining table bigger than his own dining room. The shower was awesome. Spacious, with enough jets to hit every spot.

 

Turning around to Mycroft,  he grinned.

 

“How long are we here?” he said. “I think I just catalogued at least a dozen places I want to have you.”

 

Mycroft laughed, drawing Greg fondly into his arms. He brushed his fingers through the other man’s hair. He was delighted to see the room had gone down well - it was a good start to the weekend. He hoped that tomorrow morning, he could introduce Greg to the joys of a lazy morning in a very, very luxurious hotel room. There was nothing quite like draping that ’Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.

 

“Two nights,” he murmured. “I hope that’s not presumptuous. I thought we could spend time in the grounds tomorrow… take a boat down the Thames, perhaps. Wander together. Talk.”

 

His eyes softened.

 

“Get to know each other… in and out of bed.”

 

He stroked a hand across Greg’s cheek.

 

“I - am desperately attracted to you. It’s like nothing I’ve felt before. Sincerely, you could burn my house and office to the ground, cut holes in all of my suits, take a baseball bat to every car headlight I own, and I would still want to drag you into bed. You’re irresistible. You have the keenest ability to get straight under my skin and ruin all my best-laid plans, and I suspect very strongly you will always have that talent. But I… I’d like to fall in love with you for more than that. I’d like to find out what else we share.”

 

Greg knew that he’d never want for the love of another person. As Mycroft spoke to him, he knew that this was the love people talked about. He’d thought he’d loved his ex, but now realised he’d maybe been fooling himself all along. Love was meant to feel like this. Not like that. It either felt like this or it didn’t.

 

“I need to get dressed,” he said, grinning. “Do I have to ask you to sit on your hands? Because frankly Myc, if you start to touch me, I don’t think we’ll be getting out of bed before morning…” Greg smiled at the glint in Mycroft’s eyes, then turned to reach for his suit carrier.

 

“Sit,” he instructed. “You can watch.” And with that Greg quickly divested himself of his clothes, and started to redress for dinner.

 

Mycroft took a seat, smiling from ear-to-ear, and carefully gated his hands upon one knee. He’d sat through enough unbearable cabinet meetings to know how to keep control of himself. He watched, undeniably interested, as Greg slowly stripped away his clothing.

 

“For the record,” he said, “you are magnificent. And this is no easy task.”

 

He tried to think of something to distract himself. His little brother was always a good bet for instantly settling his ardour.

 

“Sherlock has made excellent progress, by the way… his doctor has even suggested home in the next day or so. Everything seems to be very normal again. As normal as he ever was, at least.”

 

Greg made short work of getting into his suit. He knew without a doubt that the look in Myc’s eyes would have him hard before too long, even if Mycroft was showing utmost restraint.

 

“I’m glad about Sherlock,” he said. “He’s been bouncing off the walls in there. He needs to get out and feel useful.”

 

As Greg went to fix his tie, he smiled as Mycroft got up and went to assist.

 

“Let me,” Mycroft said. He moved Greg gently to stand before the floor-length mirror, reaching over his shoulders and sliding into place a very deft and precise knot. “You look marvellous. Truly. I’m… going to feel rather proud walking into dinner with you.”

 

He smiled, catching Greg’s eyes in the mirror.

 

“Is this really happening?” he asked, quietly. A thought occurred. “Perhaps the gunman caught me after all. Perhaps I am gone, and this is paradise.”

 

“This is real…” Greg said. “I keep wondering myself, but… we deserve this. Neither of us has had it easy… let’s enjoy life.”

 

He linked arms with Mycroft.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Neither of us has had it easy. It was true, Mycroft thought. He knew so little about Greg’s life. He wanted to know everything - every tiny secret, everything that made him who he was.

 

“Let’s,” he said, softly, and led Greg from the room.

 

 

As they entered the hotel’s restaurant, Mycroft had never been quite so proud in his life. He gave his name to the waiter, who showed them smoothly to their table in the very corner of the room. As they walked between the other tables, Mycroft was aware of heads literally lifting from their meals to watch Greg go by - gorgeous in his suit, and entirely Mycroft’s. His heart seared with quietly dignified delight as conversations actually stopped to watch them go by.

 

He pulled Greg’s chair out himself. Wanting to leave no doubt of the matter in the minds of the other diners, he placed a single discreet kiss to the top of Greg’s head, then took his own seat.

 

“What would you prefer to drink?” he asked Greg, accepting his menu from the waiter.

 

Greg perused the wine menu with interest. He enjoyed beer but also had an excellent taste in wine. He particularly liked Italian wine, for the broad choices offered. Maybe it was a kickback at his French heritage, but he would always choose Italian over French.

 

Greg cast Mycroft a smile.

 

“How about a bottle of Berg Bianco, Gravner? Or… maybe something to go with the food?”

 

Greg gulped a little at the price - but he knew that this was one thing Mycroft could do without any effort. Mycroft had made it clear he wanted to spoil Greg, and so he would let him.

 

Glancing down the menu, he said,

 

“God, I just don’t know what to pick… maybe the Tasting menu? Would be nice to try a little of several things?” Then again, his mouth watered at the description of the Portland crab - then his knees almost went weak when he saw the Fois Gras Au Torchon. He grinned. “Wow, I’m going to need a workout after all this.”

 

“Order whatever you like,” Mycroft said, with a slight smile. He didn’t want to make it obvious that he was prepared to ignite an entire bonfire of money this weekend if it made Greg happy - nor did he want to stress the fact that he had bonfires of money at his disposal. They said nothing caused arguments like money. Mycroft would suggest that people who believed that didn’t have Sherlock Holmes as a brother, nor had they experienced the many endless arguments that Sherlock could cause.

 

But it was a thorny issue, nonetheless.

 

“I’m sure we’ll find some way to burn a few calories,” he noted, sleekly. “Besides… I feel rather indulgent. I hope that’s alright.”

 

He smiled.

 

“I like seeing you enjoy yourself. I’m developing… rather a taste for it.”

 

Greg sat back and gazed around at the opulence. “Have you ever been here before?”

 

He wanted to add, “With anyone…?” - but he didn’t want to risk spoiling the mood. He reached forward, blushing, looking for Mycroft’s hand.

 

Mycroft smiled, taking Greg’s hand gently within his own. He wrapped their fingers snugly together.

 

“I’ve been here a few times,” he said, “though not in this capacity.” He knew what Greg was asking - and he had no wish to leave Greg under the illusion that this was where he brought his new conquests.

 

He smiled a little, rubbing Greg’s palm.

 

“Might I confess something?” he said. He rested his chin on one hand. This was rather hard to say. “You are the first in - a hideous amount of time. By which, I mean… the first in three years.”

 

He raised his eyebrows.

 

“Hence why I have been such an insufferable arsehole to you for weeks.”

 

Greg relished the strong fingers wrapping around his own - so different from a woman.

 

“Three years, huh?” He smiled a little. “Well, it’s been a while for me too… but if I tell you that I couldn’t say exactly how long, would it bother you? It’s just… it was nothing. Meaningless sex, y'know? I’m not saying it cruelly… it’s just sometimes after a bad case, I needed to feel alive. That’s all it’s been for so long - then you happened… and I realise I know nothing at all about proper connections. This is really new territory for me. I would - well… I won’t get too soppy… let’s enjoy our time… I love spending time with you.”

 

Mycroft smiled, listening softly as Greg spoke. He understood entirely. At many points over the three years, if someone had offered, he’d have said yes - and said yes to unwise, unhappy encounters, most likely. He didn’t resent the thought of Greg finding relief with someone. He’d have done it himself, if anyone had been available.

 

He thought briefly of Dick - that night of drunken cyber-sex - God, what a low that had been. He just hoped Dick was happy now, wherever he was. He’d said he’d met someone. He hoped he hadn’t just made that up for Alton’s sake.

 

Mycroft came back to himself, gave a smile, and began to trace a quiet pattern in Greg’s palm.

 

Greg had mentioned cyber-sex at one point, he remembered. Perhaps it was more widespread than Mycroft thought.

 

“So there’s the Sagrada Familia,” he said, idly. “And Barcelona… where else in the world would you like to see?”

 

“Well… I’d like to visit the Caso Battlo… all of the Gothic Quarter really, in Barcelona. With Gaudi, I think - I think it’s that he was such a rebel in his way - pushing the limits - and standing firm when those around at him scoffed…”

 

Greg paused in thought, working his way back through his life… it had been work, work, unsuccessful marriage, heartbreak and more work…

 

“I must seem kinda - unworldly to you. You jet off all over the world at a drop of a hat… honestly, I’ve hardly been anywhere.” He smiled slightly. “I think we need to rectify this together.”

 

Mycroft found his heart aching. _The man talked about architecture like most talked about football_.

 

“Much of my travel has been business-related… or in even less agreeable circumstances… there are plenty of places I’ve been, but not so many that I’ve had the chance to look around.”

 

He took a drink of his wine, casting one last look at the specials menu. He could see the waiter approaching to take their order.

 

“Have you ever been to Edinburgh?” he asked. “It’s probably my favourite in the UK… especially in winter. Christmas there is quite wonderful.”

 

“I love Edinburgh! Went a few times in training… Scottish court system. Y'know. I suppose they didn’t want to let us make tits of ourselves if something came up cross-border. I spent quite a bit of time sightseeing. I… I also kinda like castles. It’s like we stand here today, the same place where hundreds of years ago, big bloody battles would have taken place. Not much we build now will be around in five hundred years. Then the horror side of things… I mean, Mary King’s Close? All those people left to die? I suppose I’m kinda immune to modern horror, but Victorian stuff still keeps me on my toes…”

 

Greg laughed at some of the fleeting expressions on Myc’s face and made it his mission to get him on an open top tour bus one day.

 

Noticing Mycroft glance at the menu, Greg asked,

 

“So… you okay for us both to have the taster menu? Seven courses though… will it defeat us?”

 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Mycroft said, smiling. If only there were a taster menu of life, he thought - he could think of nobody better to share it with than Greg Lestrade. Seven courses would never be enough.

He gave their order to the waiter, who nodded with a smile and left.

 

Mycroft then rested his chin on his hand, taking another sip of wine.

 

“So the beard,” he said, his eyes bright. “What precisely is so fascinating about it? I don’t think you’ve explained yet.”

 

Greg blushed profusely and took a deep breath.

 

“You're… perfect… you have gorgeous skin and features - and, well, that’s just your face… you’re lovely… and I think that’s what people see - this perfection. When I first saw you with that beard, it was like a private joke just for me… maybe like, I know you better than most? Or maybe I should say, I know most of you better than many… and I see the different side… the rugged sort of - bad boy side of you… for me, the beard just… screams that at me. Constantly reminding me of who we are in private.”

Greg glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

“When you thought I’d dismissed you that time, I mean - I was gobsmacked… I can’t believe you have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are. Then when I could touch you, touch the beard - when I felt it against me - Jesus, I could have come there and then. I, erm… just like it. Okay?”

Greg blushed again, wondering if Mycroft really needed to know what a hold he had over him.

Mycroft listened with delight, drinking in every word. It was all he could do not to purr. As Greg called him ‘fucking gorgeous’, his pupils swelled and he leant a little nearer across the table, stroking a slow pattern now on the inside of Greg’s wrist with a fingertip. Hell, the man was beautiful. He was just edible.

“I’d have grown it years ago if I’d known the effect it has on you…” he husked. His finger skated idly across the veins in Greg’s wrist, its slow swirls betraying more than a hint of longing. “I have to admit, I… find your morning stubble to be desperately appealing. Partly because it means you’ve spent the night with me.”

 

It was going to be a good weekend, Mycroft thought.

They’d barely even started.

 


	23. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The perfect date... yet it's not quite meant to be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE...
> 
> This is an angsty chapter. BUT I promise you above all else that no one dies and all ends well. 
> 
> **************
> 
> These chapters are being copied over from Tumblr and were initially written last year with Mottlemoth as Mycroft and me as Greg

 

Throughout the night, Greg ate the beautiful food, drank the beautiful wine and absorbed the beautiful atmosphere. But for the most, the evening was enchanting due to the wonderful man sat opposite him.

“Tell me, Myc… tell me one thing you would love to have, would love to do, even if you found yourself penniless tomorrow.”

Greg smiled as he instantly recognised the expression where Mycroft switched into thinking mode.

Mycroft mulled several ideas through his mind - in truth, there were a lot of things he wanted out of life.

He wanted to see someone come towards him down an aisle one day. He wanted to see Sherlock happy, too.

He wanted to live out of London one day - buy a beautiful home and fill it with art. He wanted to make love on hot sand under palm trees. He wanted to perhaps see Alton’s books published, filling a shelf in a bookshop - not that there was much call for gay pornographic literature in this real world of theirs. He wanted to kiss someone in New York on Christmas Eve in the snow. He didn’t know why.

He supposed it wasn’t his place to question why. He’d spent enough of his life dictating what he should and should not want.

He felt like he was finally ready to have some of it.

As the waiter left with their empty dessert plates, and Mycroft finished the last mouthful of his wine, he looked into Greg’s eyes.

“I’d like to walk with you on the terrace,” he murmured, smiling. “Now… in the moonlight. Come on.”

He took Greg’s hand. They were halfway out of the restaurant before he realised people were staring - he didn’t care. He held onto Greg’s hand, leading him through the hotel and out of the great doors to the private terrace overlooking the grounds. The moon shone down from on high, full and bright as a new coin.

Not a soul was around.

Mycroft took Greg into his arms - gathered him close, a breath away from a kiss.

“Tell me one thing you’d love to have,” he murmured. “One thing you’d love to do. Even if you found yourself penniless tomorrow.”

Sated on food, wine and romance, Greg dissolved into Mycroft’s hug.

“What would I want? Just this - just you, just us…”

And in the silver that was the moonlight, perfection in the moment, Greg lent in for a kiss.

 

Mycroft held the other man’s face tenderly in his hands; he placed his lips to Greg’s. It was a perfect kiss - gentle, and as soft as a shadow - no demands, no urgency, nothing but the almost shy press of their lips. It was a first kiss, Mycroft thought - their first date.

As their lips came apart, Mycroft’s eyes were as bright as the stars.

He smiled at Greg, overcome for a moment. A brief shine came over his eyes.

“You are - …” He couldn’t say it; he couldn’t bear it. Three fucking years, and somehow this. It couldn’t possibly be real. Even fairy tales would think this was moving too fast. He fought to speak, fighting his emotion. “This doesn’t happen to people like me.”

“Hush, oh Mycroft, you have given so much of yourself away, Sherlock, your job… now it’s your turn tell me how to make it perfect for you…”

Perfect. Was it possible? Mycroft stared into Greg’s eyes, breaking apart inside.

If he’d been asked a month ago what he wanted, above everything, he’d have said peace and quiet. It was the most he could ever have asked for. It was the most he thought he could deserve - to be left alone, peacefully, safe in his solitude.

His fingertips trembled slightly on Greg’s jaw, cupping the other man’s face. He was gorgeous. He was perfection, he was everything, and he was looking at Mycroft like nobody else existed in the world.

Mycroft swallowed, hard; the muscles in his throat worked.

In the moment he started to believe it - to believe it was true, and this was happy ever after - he felt a strange shudder somewhere from his pocket.

He stiffened a little.

As he realised it was his mobile phone, his expression creased.

“Hell,” he whispered. “That’s - … damn it all, if this is work…” He fumbled inside his jacket, trying to find the phone. “Let the damn country burn,” he breathed, located the phone at last, and pulled it out.

An unfamiliar number.

He glanced at Greg, uneasy.

The moment Mycroft’s phone rang, Greg’s heart started to beat wildly.  He knew the Mycroft hadn’t left anything about this encounter to chance, it must be urgent. It was however the uncertainty on Myc’s face that caused his heart to skip a beat.

He laid his hand on Mycroft’s arm, nodding at him, a nod which for all the world in one action, said, “answer it, it’ll be ok…. whatever the world throws at us, however many spanners are thrown in the works, we are together….”

He watched as Mycroft spoked in clipped tones, the pit of his stomach clenching with each word he heard…

“A fit?”

 

Mycroft saw nothing of the world around him - the terrace, the moonlight, the grounds - Greg - it had all ceased to exist. There was only the voice in his ear.

He listened to it, as it told him briefly about an accident - a fall - a knock to the skull. It had triggered something in Sherlock.

“How serious?” he heard his own voice ask, a thousand miles away.

His face reflected the answer he was given. All colour ran from him at once. All emotion shut down. It closed as swiftly as a door being slammed.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Is Doctor Watson there?”

The voice on the phone replied. Mycroft listening intently.

“Please tell him that I’m coming,” Mycroft said, his voice stiff.

He ended the call.

“I - must go.” He glanced at Greg. His face was completely without expression. His breaking heart showed only in the very depths of his eyes. “The bill is already paid. Enjoy yourself here. I need to be with my brother.”

He turned. He began to walk away across the terrace.

Greg paused only for a moment before shouting, “stop, no…. no…. Mycroft, love… we do this together.  Darling, whatever horrible things that happen to each of us now, we are there for each other… please?”

Mycroft stiffened as the voice called him back. He did nothing for a moment, frozen to the spot - then he turned, as pale as the moon. His expression was set in cold, haunted resignation.

“Why?” he asked. His chest heaved, his eyes hardened with agony. “What good will it do? You want to be ‘there’ for me… is it not now abundantly clear to you that my life barrels from one misery to the next, and that is just the way things are? This is - …”

He almost said, 'your fault’. He put his hands over his eyes, shutting down.

“ - … entirely typical of my wretched life - that I start thinking I can be happy, and then - …” His hands clenched into fists, shaking. “- … quite possibly going to die - actually die, this day, tonight - and this is entirely because I - …”

He broke.

He turned away.

“For God’s sake,” he said, “stay away from me. Stay the hell away from me. Don’t taunt me with happiness. I told you. Minutes ago. This doesn’t happen to people like me.”

Greg listened stunned. He heard the words, but all he could feel was fear, cold, dark, hard fear emanating from the man in waves.

“Want to be a miserable fuck? Blame yourself for everything that goes wrong? Let me tell you Mycroft, it doesn’t work like that… neither of us can stop bad things happening, but Jesus fucking Christ, this HAS NOT happened because you and I have found something special.  So your life barrels from one misery to the next? Well, let me tell you that you have already given me more happiness than I have already had in my life. So, if I have to spend the rest of my life holding you in your pain, then I will do it without regret.

Now we can go to the clinic together, or I will get a cab, you can refuse to let me in, and I will wait by the door for a hundred life time’s waiting for you. Without you, I can’t breathe, and I know that we can help each other through this… it’s not just you. We all love him!

Now, are we going?”

“He’s not YOUR brother!” Mycroft raged. It was so much easier to be angry than afraid. It felt so much safer. “You don’t - have any idea what - …” He shuddered, shaking. He couldn’t cope with this right now. Sherlock might be about to breathe his last in this world. If he arrived late because he’d been here, gadding about in the moonlight like life was a fucking fairy-tale, he’d never forgive himself.

He unlocked his phone with his jaw set, shaking and angry.

“Lawson,” he barked into it, as he strode away across the terrace. He didn’t care if Greg followed or not. “Get back here with the car. Now. I don’t care how many damn fucking laws you break.”

Greg knew that nothing he could say, would assuage Mycroft’s fear, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t let him go through this alone.

The car came to a screeching halt and was moving away whilst Greg jumped in. Mycroft barked the destination at Lawson who knew better than to question.

“Whether you want me here or not, I will not let you be on your own through this.” With that, noticing Mycroft’s rigidity, Greg simply took his hand and squeezed it in his….

Mycroft’s shoulders had turned to granite. On the surface, he barely seemed to notice Greg get into the car - inside, he’d never been so keenly aware of anything in his life. As they set off at speed, and Greg quietly squeezed his hand, Mycroft visibly suppressed a shudder.

It was almost fifteen minutes before his jaw had unlocked enough to speak.

“After all this,” he managed. “After all of this - a fall in the shower - one bump to the skull…”

Mycroft covered his face. Fear was cracking up through anger, dissolving away his resolve. They weren’t even halfway there. He started to shake.

“God help me.”

Greg couldn’t believe what he was hearing, what the fuck had happened?

As Mycroft started to shake, Greg did the only thing he could do, he wrapped his arms around the man he loved, no false promises that all would be ok, just a promise that he was there….

Mycroft couldn’t fight. He wanted desperately to push Greg away - for his own sake - he didn’t know if he could do this. He couldn’t open himself up to happiness when this was all it earned him when it made the pain so much worse.

But he was too weak. He was too afraid. If he lost Sherlock, he had so little. So much of himself, he had sacrificed for Sherlock - if that was gone, it had all been to waste. All of it. Both brothers’ lives.

 

“You need to stay away,” Mycroft gasped - he was shaking almost too hard to speak. He didn’t want to give into the loving arms that surrounded him. It hurt too much. “You need to leave me.”

You need to leave me. The words reverberated around Greg’s skull.

It’s grief, it’s pain, Greg chanted over and over to himself, he had seen so many partners, lovers, siblings thrash out at those they loved when facing great adversity…  he had to believe this was real, he wasn’t prepared to run…

“Mycroft, me going will have no bearing on Sherlock, but I believe that what we have is special… I am here for you Myc, please don’t push me away…”

Mycroft shook in silence for a minute more, cold and hard into Greg’s arms. The grief coursed in him like poison - like venom - it was crippling him, beating further into his veins with every fretful thud of his heart. I should have known, it said. I should have known, I should have known.

By the time his arms, at last, went around Greg, his hands had almost formed claws. He curled into Greg’s chest, broken and shaking.

_Go, he wanted to sob._

_Don’t go, he wanted to beg._

He clung to Greg, as frightened and small as a child.

“He’s my little brother,” he gasped. His voice cracked. “I’m supposed to look after him. I’m supposed to be the responsible one. I promised. Oh God, I promised.”

Tears ran freely down Greg’s face, collecting in Mycroft’s hair…

“Sweetheart, my precious man….”

He still wouldn’t offer reassurances, he couldn’t lie to this man, and he had no facts…. all he could do was hold him as he cried out in pain…

He rocked the man against him, pressing gentle kisses to his head….

He was broken from his ministrations as the screech of tires announced their arrival at the clinic. Before the car had stopped, Mycroft was out, stumbling then running as he pulled his feet back under him, Greg ran by his side. He couldn’t imagine where else his place would be.


	24. Needing to let go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft learnsSHerlock's fate and Greg realises that he needs to teach Mycroft to loosen his hold a little on his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written last year with Mottlemoth playing Greg and Greg by me :)

 

By the time Mycroft placed a hand on the clinic doors, the broken-hearted child had been crushed back down to the depths of Mycroft’s soul where it belonged.

The man who blew through the doors was Mr Holmes, politician, older brother of Sherlock, pale as a sheet and wanting answers.

“Holmes,” he said to the night receptionist. “I’m looking for my brother Sherlock. I understand he’s had a fit and is receiving urgent treatment. His consultant is Dr McCarthy.”

There was a flurry of activity, and Mycroft and Greg were shown to an office.

“The doctor will be here shortly” a nurse advised. “You brother is stable, but Dr McCarthy will be along shortly - would you and your partner like tea? ”

Greg glanced over at Mycroft who hadn’t seemed to notice, so he nodded on behalf of them both, at least it gave him something to do. Mycroft was pacing the small office, working out the questions that needed to be asked.

The tea was arranged, and the doctor came in.

Mycroft was brusque, professional, all of his emotion from earlier boxed away with the lid tightly fixed on.

“Mr Holmes, and Mr? ….” he turned to look at Greg, but before Greg could answer Mycroft said, “D.I Lestrade my partner.”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat… just maybe, just maybe…… then he tuned in to the doctor….

“Mr Holmes, your brother had a slight trip earlier, it happens. He bumped his head as he came out of the shower room. He started having a grand mal seizure which unfortunately lasted several minutes, we had to give him, some sedation to stop the seizure and this seems to have worked.

 

He has had an urgent brain scan whilst you were on your way here. I have just spoken to the radiologists and he confirms that there is no sign of fracture, haemorrhage, or thrombosis. I think that due to the recent trauma our best diagnosis is that he just interrupted the circuitry momentarily, which is entirely reversible. He will probably have some transient, and short-term memory loss, such as with dates, etc but I am pleased to tell you, he should need only a few extra days here to make sure that there are no repercussions. He will also have to rest when he gets home and take it easy.”

 

Greg’s knees went weak at the good news…. “thank God, thank you….”  He took Mycroft’s hand and squeezed….

Mycroft said nothing at first, processing the doctor’s words for some time. He then asked several questions - the degree of memory loss, the likelihood of future fits, the best course of action in preventing any future occurrences - and took in each answer very seriously and quietly, appearing for all the world to be in complete control of himself.

 

It was only as the consultant left the room for a moment to fetch a file that cracks began to show in Mycroft’s armour. He pressed his forehead to the edge of the consultant’s desk, breathing out slowly and trying to suppress the shake in his shoulders.

 

“I should have been an only child,” he managed, his throat tight.

 

“He’s going to be ok Myc, he’s going to be ok…… the nurse said we can go and see him shortly, John is with him right now”

 

Greg spoke clearly, trying to quash his emotions, he put his hand on Myc’s arm, “come on love, let’s go and see him, you will feel better when you have seen him with your own eyes”

Mycroft breathed for a minute more. Normally, on a night like this, he would have had Lawson drive him home, then watched Inspector Morse in the dark while getting increasingly drunk. It was strange to have someone here, he thought. He felt quietly, gently steered. He was emotionally unsettled enough to follow.

 

“There’s - no reason for me to -” he said, uneasily. “If the consultant says he’s fine, then… laying eyes on him won’t - …”

 

Greg took a breath, ragged and halting, the air felt like sand as it pulled over his tongue and into his airway. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to get his brain to come up with a solution to the situation they found themselves in.

 

The shattered man could only guess at what Mycroft was feeling. He knew that regardless of the outward show of animosity between the brothers, Mycroft loved Sherlock dearly and felt duty bound to protect him, as he had done for most of his life. Greg also knew that Myc had to somehow start to loosen his reigns a little on his brother, not only to protect Sherlock’s sanity, and John’s as well, but to let himself start to live a life he had only ever dreamed of. Greg was probably the first person who had shown Mycroft that he could be truly happy, that he could have his career, look after his brother but also have love and everything that goes with it, he just needed to learn to moderate.  He also couldn’t let Mycroft throw all this away in a pointless guilt trip, he knew from experience that life threw some cruel curveballs. It was rarely any one's fault, it just was.

“Come on Myc, let’s go see him, I know he’s not my brother, but I do care for him ….  We also need to see John too, make sure he’s ok….”

 

Greg put his hand out for Mycroft’s, he smiled gently.

“God…” Mycroft managed, despairing. “You - aren’t going to make this easy, are you? Damn your stubbornness. You would have swum back from bloody Mexico. I know it.”

 

He pushed his hands into his hair, dragged in a sharp breath and sat up, forcing his emotions back under the mask once more.

“You want to see him,” he said. “Then let’s go to see him. And we’ll speak to John. We’ll make sure he has everything he needs and is not too distressed.”

He stood up, now as committed to seeing Sherlock as if it were his idea.

“Come on,” he said and opened the door for Greg. His expression was grey and resigned. “We’ll put your mind to rest.”


End file.
